Snippets of League Life: Before and After
by Thalaba
Summary: A series of glimpses into the lives of the characters in LXG. Ratings will range between T and M. They are not strictly canon but that's the fun part of fanfiction. Warnings for: sexual content blood play violence.
1. Tossing and Turning

Hello there :) This is the first chapter in a series of glimpses into the lives of the people who make up LXG as well as some original characters of my own creation (unless clearly specified.) This is not meant to be canon and **I am not Allan Moore, Kevin O'neil, nor any other Victorian author whose character(s) may have been represented by the graphic novels/movie by these men**. These snippets will range from PG13 to Mature in rating. They will be considered everything from General to Dark Fic to Romance, et al.

**Chapter One: Tossing and Turning**

**PG13**

**Summary:** What is Mina scared of ?

He was in her room and looking down at her sleeping form before she even knew the asylum walls had been breached. It was supposed to be safe here; that was why Jonathan and the others had insisted she stay behind. _"Lock the door behind you. We will return shortly."_ A kiss and her husband was gone.

His ancient eyes were a deep red as he watched her with a mixture of fury and pity. The tears had dried on his deathless cheeks and it seemed he was in no mood to wash them away. No crosses, no weapon, in a building full of madmen: there was no one who could help her and he knew it.

"You have no one to blame but yourself." He spoke words meant for the men desecrating his bed as he forced his way on top of her.

He made her like it when his teeth penetrated her throat and made her like it when he forced his own blood into her slack mouth. His laugh was short and bitter, and he quietly informed her with dark intent that this humiliation was what he wanted most: it eased the pain of Lucy's murder. Somewhat.

And his smile was so sharp and wide in front of her entranced blue eyes. She knew something was wrong but at the moment...

Mina woke up with a start, untangling her fingers clenched in a stranglehold in the red velvet around her neck. She reached up absentmindedly to touch the cold sweat that would not show itself—not now, not ever—on her smooth forehead, and slowly sank back onto the sheets.

She lay there blinking for a few moments, which stretched into an hour, before pulling her thick green quilt high around her shoulders. Jonathan's desk still stood in the corner, now empty. Her vanity was as orderly as ever. The room was all white and blue wallpaper and every little thing was in its place.

She wondered if her mind was as rearrange-able as the furniture


	2. Anger

**Title:** I triple dare you...  
**Characters:** Rodney Skinner, John Skinner  
**Rating:**PG  
**Author's Notes:** I have taken license with many back stories so please don't read these expecting canon. Only Rodney Skinner does not belong to me. His made up family though is all mine.

An hour ago there had been teasing drunken laughter, accompanied by the clink of gin bottles and the youthful stamping of feet.

Forty minutes ago a bet had been placed. The young men gathered had emptied their pockets and hastily scraped together two pounds in the hopes that one Rodney Skinner would never hold up his end of the bet. They all knew the thief was adventuresome but his brother John had thought up something absolutely horrible. Who in their right mind would drink a liquid solution owned by a reputedly insane scientist?

Twenty minutes ago, after a few more drinks and many more jabs at the redhead's masculinity, Rodney saluted his mates and tipped back the glass vial.

His screams shocked the boys out of their happy stupour, shooting them off their vegetable crate seats, gin and ale spilling along the cheap flooring. He fell, writing, while a vein throbbed upon his forehead and the tendons pulsed along his burning throat.

Fifteen minutes ago only John was left, kneeling over his brother's feverish form. The screams had diminished to strained grunts but his limbs twisted painfully, elbows knocking against forgotten bottles.

Now it was just Rodney. John had rushed away, sobbing, as his brother's body struggled then stilled. No one saw the consequence take place, no one saw Rodney disappear from the inside out.

And in a few minutes when he wakes no one will see how scared the gentleman thief really is, nor how much he will despair, nor how angry he will be at the solitude pressed on him.

Fear fades.  
Despair fades.  
Anger will keep Rodney warm in the nights to come. And while his body is invisible to the human eye, it is that attribute he will hide best of all.


	3. A Scottish Mystery

**Genre:** Dark/Horror-ish **Rating:** PG13 or so.  
**Summary:** Three little stories about Gregory MacTavish.  
**Additional Notes:** These three stories are like a package deal to me but can be read solo and still make sense. **One** takes place before **Two** and **Three**. Everyone mentioned is an original character.  
**Warnings:** Cannibalism, incest, S&M type-dealies  
Takes place in 19th century Scotland.

**One**

He had been staring at the greasy bloodless organs for fifteen minutes and recently his lower lip had drifted away from his slightly mustached upper one. He was a doctor--_wanted_ to be a doctor--and what he was considering would end those dreams and turn whatever remained to dust.

If he got caught.

He would have to ignore the entrails; they had a whiff of infection about them and their colour made Gregory pause. The hearts hadn't been on the slab long but any disturbance in their constitution would be noticed. He turned his attention to the livers.

He delicately caressed the glass jar which encased one thick piece of meat and sighed, removing a scalpel from one of the deep pockets his laboratory coat was beautifully blessed with.

There was a tangy, almost bitter taste. Chewy.

His cold blue eyes rolled back ever so slightly as the third piece slipped down his throat. Gregory would have to still the sudden tightening in his trousers before he went back to face the unclean masses that inhabited the hospital, but one desire at a time...

**Two**

"Were you a thief before we met?"

Gregory rakes his warmed gaze over his sister's face, smoothing a lock of white blond hair back from her still forehead. No smile touches her full mouth; no hint of judgment laced her question. She opens her lips slowly to receive a piece of the exotic cuisine he has prepared for them.

"Och, yes love. I ken since I was a wee lad."

He uses the endearment even though she despises it--in fact because she despises it. He knows his punishment will be severe and Gregory needs the harsh feel of leather on his flesh tonight. She chews the seasoned meat and watches him piercingly with caramel eyes; it is a glare reserved only for him and it makes the tall man shudder.

"Do you realize how childish that is Gregory? You are an insignificant spot."

She caresses her chest while she speaks, her expression unchanging as she lies upon the four poster bed. Gregory swallows his dinner quickly and puts the plate away.

"Donna be saying such lassie. Yourra sun dappled Eleanor. Come have a seat on me lap and let me--"

The hard slap resonates in the brick-walled bedroom and blood covers Gregory's front teeth. He watches Eleanor stand while she barely glances in his direction.

"Stretch out your arms Gregory. I must fetch something from the desk."

**Three**

He had dressed slowly this morning, his shoulders hunching under the sudden weight of finely stitched woolen suspenders. A white linen shirt hid the purple bruises Eleanor had so precisely brought forth on his snow pale skin but he hissed as the material pressed against his raw wrists. Eleanor had chosen the cufflinks herself and she stared as he attached the small golden dots.

He had a vague limp and almost toppled over the stairs--would have if Cousin Caleb hadn't offered an arm to lean on. Eleanor stood indifferent in the doorway of their chamber.

"Make sure he wears the fur trim Cousin Caleb. And his top hat. No husband of mine will appear slovenly outside these walls."

Had she gone too far this time? Gregory looked back to the halo of her tumbling tresses, her flat eyes.

No. Not far enough.


	4. France: Part One

**Genre:** Angst  
**Rating:** PG13 (But use discretion)  
**Summary:** How Vivienne became Vivienne.  
**Warnings:** Discretion is advised for rape. Nothing graphic but...  
**Author's Notes:** Vivienne is an OC of mine. Her life story belongs to me, till the end of the universe and flying monkeys. The story takes place in Paris, 1800s era.

She hadn't heard them follow her after leaving the _Olympia_. Her head had been spinning from the brandy as well as the kisses Berthe had given her after the show was over and the patrons were rearranging their trousers, finally prepared to head home to their wives.

Vivienne had encountered the three men early in the night: three well dressed drunkards, open cravats and greased hair, laughing loudly and leering at each dancer in turn. The redhead had just finished her song and was moving among the cigar choked room, collecting accolades and offered wine glasses, when she found herself pulled into the first man's lap.

It was a common occurrence .Her smile never faltered and her hands touched his face gently but firmly while the two other men reached for her bosom beneath the heavily decorated costume. Vivienne laughed and pushed away their meaty fingers, ignoring the sloppy mouth at her ear and the putrid breath that pushed against her throat. Another singer appeared and Vivienne made her escape, falling into the change room and Berthe's comforting embrace.

It was late when she left, walking down empty streets while the other girls headed to the café. Vivienne couldn't afford that.

The first one again caught her from behind, the other two stumbling towards her to make short work of her linen dress and not-so-decorated bodice.

Taken against the wall, brutally crushed into the cobblestone street; Vivienne had never believed such pain could exist. The slaps from her mother and the stinging words thrown at her the day she left her village—-so cut off from the rest of France and the excitement of the city—-nothing could compare

Torn, bloody, and tear-stained, her throat sore with unheeded cries, Vivienne knew they were monsters before the first glint of fangs.


	5. France: Part Two

**Genre:** A bit of commentary, so let's say horror/drama.  
**Fandom:** Original characters  
**Rating:** PG for violence and implications of rape  
**Summary:** Emile does more in his day then hang around with dusty books. He sends messages too.  
**Additional Notes:** Characters all belong to me :) Takes place in 19th century France.

He had never seen the woman before.

She wasn't beautiful—well, even if he ignored the bruises that marked what was a naturally pale face, Emile didn't find her attractive. She lay on his bed, a figure of broken flesh with tear-stained cheeks, gasping for the breath that had been stolen from her by fiends in the night. She would survive but that shouldn't have been an issue. His laws had been set down, the vampires knew how he felt about such matters of feeding and the Change and yet—

Three of his kind had done this to her.

Theodore and Laurént had found her in the very early hours, (late by their standards of course, the young vampire Master was curious about why they had been wandering so close to dawn), and brought her to Emile's home. The vampire lord's face was emotionless as they carried the woman into his chamber and laid her upon his cold, clean quilts. Their greatcoats still surrounded her, for when the men had found the flame-haired unfortunate her soft body had been greatly abused and left naked to the elements. Only a string of baubles jangled on her wrist.

Emile left his manservant to tend to the woman should she wake while he went for a walk.

They were easy to find, still drunk from their latest kill and looking to sate other urges. All that betrayed Emile were his eyes; they were a horribly bright, unnatural blue. His appearance never broke from its stony façade, not even when he wrenched their arms off at the shoulder, nor when he tore their throats out with his bare hands.

He thought it sent an appropriate message.


	6. Chains

**Characters:** Mina Harker, Edward Hyde, mentions of Henry Jekyll  
**Rating:** R  
**Warning:** This is Dark. You've been warned.

Her blue eyes widened and she fought to hold back the squeal rising in her chest as Edward pulled on the chains surrounding her thick ankles. He would not be happy with her resistance but Mina knew that in the long run he would appreciate her all the more.

With Henry the vampire was in control. She would tower over the doctor like a vicious nightmare, fulfilling his dark fantasies of humiliation while she rode him to completion.

Certain times he wished to be gentle, to be kind, and Mina allowed that. Henry's hands were long and precise and she would never toss such promises aside.

But when she and Edward met she could finally be honest. Her guilt was oppressive, could not be washed away with a handful of good deeds done in the name of The League. Her physical pain at their meetings was nothing. It faded almost instantly, but at least Edward made her feel it. It was part of her absolution. Every pull, every torn piece of pristine flesh, every bruise: they were prayers to those she had out lived and those she had sent to their final rest.

To the others Mina could not express these thoughts. She was a near atheist, a cold chemist, uninterested and distant in the lives of her closest comrades. Edward knew differently, and he forced Mina to see it for herself.

A strangled gasp issued from stern red lips as the ankle joint snapped. Mina blinked heatedly at Edward as he locked the knot in place, deep thundering laughter skimming across her naked thighs.

Sweat pooled in the small of her back as he lowered his immense bulk over her, pressing hard upon her injured leg. It would not heal correctly now and before the night was through he would break it again.

She hoped.


	7. Happier Times

**Genre:** Romance, Fluff  
**Rating:** R  
**Summary:** M/F  
**Warnings:** None. I mean c'mon, look at the rating.  
**Author's Notes:** If any OC's are used their stories belongs to me, till the end of the universe and flying monkeys. Should any canon characters be used I am not making a single cent from this so please don't sue.

"I enjoy watching you like this."  
"Less work for you."  
"Less work ? My dear, my hands have become sergeants. You cannot fathom how many orders I've been given to grab as much flesh as possible."

I grin at the zigzagging of his palms now; first on my knees, then my wrists, purposely prodding the curve that is my stomach to release a chuckle from my swollen lips.

"They're jealous of my eyes. You see?" I laugh heartily at his poor pun, swatting his smooth chest as I smile down at him. "My eyes can envelop every inch of you in mere moments." I swallow as his dark gaze rakes over my torso but it quickly returns to my face, holding my attention in a grip tighter than any embrace.

"But my hands..." they now rest on my hips, splayed to touch the tops of my thighs. His voice has deepened and my laughter is gone, my gaze as intense as his while his fingers begin to creep up over my ribs. "They cannot dream of moving so fast."

Warm hands come up to cup my breasts, thumbs massaging pebbled nipples, and I contract around him.

Leaning over, I deposit a line of nips and licks along his collar bone. One of his hands returns to my thigh, squeezing, while the other plays over the beadwork of my necklace.

"Dorian ?"  
"Mmm ?"  
"We will be late."  
"...I don't really care."  
"What about this room ? It is rather expensive."

I quirk my lips at the look crossing his face and sit back with an extra push. His boredom knows no bounds where financial arrangements are concerned.

"Poor little boy."  
"Little ? Mina you know better."

He smirks, his fingertips searching.  
He makes me laugh.


	8. A Boy's Thoughts

**Characters:** Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn  
**Rating:**PG13  
**Author's Notes:**Some slashiness. Blood. Right now this seems more angst than dark to me but I'm happy with how it turned out. I don't own any of these characters mentioned.

The young man paced back and forth in front of his opened bedroom window. A worried expression had pasted itself upon his rosy face, his unruly mop of hair made moreso by the humid night air.

Where was Huck? Tom had been waiting impatiently for the last two hours and now he was picturing all sorts of horrible happenings. What if Huck's father had come out of his drunken haze in time to catch Huck leaving their home? Tom blanched, a smooth hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. What if Huck was injured? What if Old Man Finn had finally--

"Psst! Tom!"

Tom jumped and turned around in time to see Huck haul himself through the window. His white shirt was torn and his dark hair was slightly matted to his forehead with sweat, but his eyes were alight with nervous energy and the unknown. They faced each other and Tom took a deep breath.

"Ya won't say nuthin' will ya Tom?" The blond boy shook his head, eyes widening.

"I won't Huck, I swear I won't tell anyone where you're going."

They shared a nod.

"We..we'll always be friends right Huck? I-I mean, you are coming back...right?"

And then Tom saw the shine of a razorblade. "What--"

"I want us to be blood brothers Tom," the shorter boy took a step toward his friend, the blade in his left hand, the palm of his right facing up. "We'll never forget each other then...and it'll be somethin' just for us."

Tom watched with sick fascination as Huck drew the metal over his flesh, the blood welling up immediately. Huck's face screwed up for a moment and then he looked expectantly at Tom. The blond's eyebrows slowly came together. He looked down at his own unscarred hand then back into Huck's face. They had known each other forever and--

Huck's lips were upon his before he could say another word, his sunburned mouth caressing Tom's so gently. And all the while Tom Sawyer's eyes remained open, not knowing what to do or how to respond even when the razor sliced along his pale shoulder. Huck pressed his own wound into the clean cut, holding on for a moment, then he stepped back, moving deliberately to the window.

"I'll see you later Tom," he looked away as he manouevered himself outside, stretching to reach the tree nearby.

"Yeah," Tom breathed, barely registering the warm trail of blood rolling down his bicep as he watched Huck race across the lawn and into the willows. "Yeah I'll be here."

Sawyer leaned against the outer rail of the Nautilus. The ocean sparkled under the afternoon sun but his trademark grin hid in the shadows.

Huck was gone, had been for quite some time, and now Tom and this gang of misfits were headed to find his murderer. Not that any of the others knew anything of a Huckleberry Finn or of his adventure on a raft or the fact that he had come back looking for his best friend but that the blond boy had not waited. The blond boy had wanted his own adventure so this Huck had followed, still searching.

And this Huck got killed.

Tom scratched idly at his marked shoulder, taking in a gulp of salted air.

And no one would know.


	9. The Dance: After the Movie

**Characters:** Jekyll,internal Hyde,Mina  
**Rating:**PG13  
**Author's Notes:**Jebus this one just kept going and going. I'm not that happy with it and will probably write another fic for this prompt at a later date.

He couldn't believe his luck. He had given them the slip. The remnants of the League believed he was huddled in his new laboratory, pouring over forgotten equations, test after test after test. But no, not tonight. Tonight there was a society ball and the crème de la crème of London would be present.

Hyde had brooked no refusal.

If he was honest with himself, Jekyll had been looking forward to it as well. The thought of a quartet, perhaps a soprano, and hundreds of interested faces swimming in a pool of swirling bodies was quite thrilling for the doctor. He had been out of society for so long that no one gave him so much as a second glance when he quietly walked through the front doors--behind a rather rotund elderly couple just to err on the side of safety.

The lights were low and intimate and Hyde approved immediately, conceding the gas lamps as a necessity of the ladies. How else were they to display their deliciousness?

_Course we always work better in the darkness, don't we Harry?_

Jekyll straightened his shoulders as he was wont to do and returned to ignoring the other person that occupied his head.

_But we came here for the same thing Harry, no matter how you'd like to think otherwise._

The doctor walked along the main room, nodding politely to a few passing ladies, their pastel dresses a welcome change from the blacks and browns of city-wear. They were much too young for what he wanted...for what Hyde wanted.

_But I want one fresh Harry! She'll like it once we get her alone, they all do, they're all the same._

It had been a while since Jekyll had let Hyde out but the brute still had memories in his seclusion: a waif of a girl thrown across a blood soaked bed, her limbs at odd angles; a buxom matron pressed hard against a brick wall; thick, candle lit hair twisted round his fist--

Henry shut Edward down with one flinch. Some memories were not fit for moments like these, moments of hunting. His time with Mina had--

_My time Harry. My time. Did you even get so much as a feel? I doubt it._

But Henry had gotten much more than that and Hyde knew it and hated his counterpart for it. Henry knew the contours of Mina's flesh just as well as Hyde. He had forced the monster back many times in order to sample her lips without the taint of Hyde's presence.

A feeling of confidence stole over the doctor and before it faded he found himself participating in a twirl, a parade: a dance. Partners were switched quickly and one fine looking woman after another was thrust into Henry's arms as the couples whirled around the hall. His coat tails swung out behind him and then suddenly Jekyll was looking down into a set of very familiar, very blue eyes that showed less shock than his own must have.

"...Mina."

Her red satin hugged the curves of her body even if it allowed none to his gaze. The grip on his hand was painful but those perfect lips of hers betrayed none of her suspected unease. The song had changed now and the pair remained unaccosted.

"It is surprising to see you here Henry. Are you an acquaintance of Lord de Travers?"

She knew he was not and Jekyll's eyebrows furrowed. She was supposed to be in some damned convent or confine in Scotland, trying to find meaning in her everlasting existence, not dancing with every Tom, Dick and--

_Harry! Move your hand lower!_

There was a growl in Hyde's words but it wouldn't have made any difference. Henry's hand had slipped to the small of Mina's back, forcing her to move closer to him. Her cheeks were flushed.

They didn't speak for some time but Henry continued to stare, at her pink cheeks and blue eyes, at the exquisite onyx choker surrounding her marred throat. There was a murmur of excitement in the hall and over her coifed locks Henry glimpsed a man limping drunkenly, another holding him up and moving towards the parlour.

"I have arrived only recently Henry," her voice was low, her eyes glued to his own. "I wanted to reacquaint myself with London. I wanted-"

"Release."

She smiled at his understanding and enjoyed the rest of the dance but Henry could not. Hyde was too happy, too smug, and Henry...he could now see what had brought the blush to Mina's face. Hatred billowed as he pictured Mina and the unknown man together, her luscious form beneath that--Or had it even went that far?

_These people are like you Harry. I doubt he even knew what to do with her once she got that close._

"Henry you are being watched--No, do not turn around!"

Fear momentarily ripped through the hatred as he led Mina off the dance floor. She laughed softly at his clenched jaw line and tarried, not allowing herself to be dragged away.

"Wait Henry. She is rather beautiful."

"What are you talking about?" he almost hissed at her, so intent he was on escaping this mansion with Mina as well. The vampire was having none of it and easily unhooked her arm from Henry's grasp.

"You did not come here for my attention. Did you Edward."

Henry stopped in mid-rebuke, peering down again into Mina's eyes but this time she was not looking at him--in his eyes yes, but she was not speaking to Henry Jekyll anymore.

"Do you see her Edward? In the blue?"

He shouldn't have looked. He should have demanded a reason from Mina, had her explain what she hoped to gain by this madness. But Henry's nature won out and so he looked back.

A milk-skinned lady in palest blue stood by herself, shooting covert glances in the doctor's direction while she sipped her punch. Her copper curls lying perfectly upon the swell of her bosom, her apparent isolation unfathomable to Henry. He swallowed.

"I see her."

Mina was toying lightly with the gems at her throat.

"Then perhaps you should ask her to dance."

Henry tore his gaze away from the lonely beauty with a vicious will, staring intently at Mina with a sort of desperation. Did she realize what she was saying? She smiled at a passing butler and accepted a tall, thin glass of champagne, gently pressing the cut crystal into Henry's sweating hands.

"You came here for a purpose Henry. So did I."

He watched mutely as she turned away, almost gliding towards a group of tipsy older men. Again Jekyll swallowed, putting the glass back on another servant's tray.

Was this a test set by the League? Most knew his weakness for the vampire but would she blatantly encourage him to such acts? His lips thinned as a white haired bugger took Mina by the arm, leading her further away. The woman in blue was still there, still pretending not to look.

_We all need release Harry._


	10. Pretty Caged Bird

So this story was inspired from the LXG novelization. It contains mature subject matter such as various sexual content, rape, and drug use, so use your own discretion. **Characters:** Eva Draper, James Moriarty/The Fantom

**Part One**

She had been typing her father's notes when the blast happened. The walls seemed to shake with the heavy thud of marching feet and the startled voices of her fellow workers. There were sounds like gunshots and Eva propelled herself from the cluttered desk, her large blue eyes wide with fear and confusion. The factory was a place of discussion and experiment but the upper floors were relatively silent. Had there been an accident with the machines? The balloons?

The blond took hold of her dark patterned dress and ran into the hallway, just missing the crying form of a racing secretary. Smoke was billowing down an upper stairway and Eva felt her mouth go dry. She had to find her father.

Pushing several nonsensical clerks out of her way, using more strength than she thought she possessed, Eva frantically made her way to the main stairs. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she glimpsed a glint of silver and her heartbeat quickened: rifles! _Oh Papa, what is happening?_ She heard the voice before a meaty hand clamped onto her forearm.

"There she is."

The men wore round hats and dark cloaks that swathed their bodies, manipulating the normal shape of the man underneath.

"Papa!" she shrieked towards the steps, trying to pull away. They were laughing at her in halting grunts.

"Don't worry _frauline_. We'll take you to your Papa."

Then they were pushing her down the stairs towards the lobby where more cloaked men stood with firearms, others menacing the cowering clerks and secretaries. This was not where Eva stopped. Her Papa would not be found here and these strange men knew it. They were heading to the factory floor.

She could see her father once the large steel doors were opened. His back was to her but she could see his aged form shake, his wispy gray hair matted to the back of his head. An absolute giant of a man….creature…stood facing her father and Eva felt her jaw quiver. Who were these people and why would they wish to hurt her father or his business? Karl Draper was a scientist!

As they neared Eva could see the metal plating that seemed to cover half the giant's face. The other half was a film of thick scarring and the girl fell silent with shock as his cold eyes fell on her. His mouth opened in the most hideous imitation of a smile but she was unable to shrink back. The men behind Eva pushed her forward to nearly fall into the mass of furs that covered the giant's form. A rough leather glove traveled down the span of her cheek and Eva closed her eyes tightly before being shoved in another direction.

**Part Two**

There was more stamping feet and Eva was pulled along, her father's voice seeming far behind as he begged the giant for mercy.

Sweat dribbled down the plains of her back. She had only been imprisoned in the compound two days and had yet to become accustomed to the endless heat from the pumping furnaces. Outside the fortress the Mongolian wind howled and icy shards obscured vision. None of this mattered to Eva. She sat on an elegant sofa, desperately wishing the pain in her head to go away along with the softly blurred lights that danced in front of her eyes.

They had drugged her from the beginning. Eva neither knew how or how long it had taken to reach this architectural stronghold, though her estimate would have been much longer. Each movement seemed to take hours. Raising her hand; brushing her hair; placing her head on a sequined pillow: Eva was languid with the results of heavy opiates, though she tried to throw it off. She knew her father was in danger, felt it, that she was in danger….but it was so hard to think….

A muffled clumping alerted her to a change in the room and her left hand moved up to clasp the collar of her robe. Eva's dress had been taken upon arrival, leaving her in only her own cream slip and a watery silk robe. It clung in wet patches to her inner elbows and back but the blond was oblivious. Her gaze had become fixated on a massive pair of boots.

She had not seen the giant since the day in her father's factory and he now loomed above her, a sick smirk plastered over his distorted visage. There was still an awful atmosphere of terror surrounding this creature, but looking up in her narcotic induced haze Eva wondered that he was not as large as the first day she had seen him. _His furs…_

His still-gloved hand darted out to grab her roughly by the arm, forcing her to stand on shaky feet. She did not want to touch him but her boneless arms grappled for purchase while a chuckle escaped his ruined lips. _Dear God, he's hideous!_

"Come Miss Draper," an irritated, gravely voice issued forth. A tremor of panic crossed her forehead only to be quickly replaced by the pain inside her skull. "I did not bring you here as an object of viewing pleasure."

-----

She had been crying for so long now her eyes felt forever drowned. The yellow robe lay crumpled and slightly torn some feet away from where she sat, pressed against the large wooden desk he had violated her upon. Her clumsy fingers pulled at the hem of her slip, trying to cover as much of her body as possible while his seed and her blood ran down her trembling thighs. Part of her haze clouded mind had yet to realize anything of what had happened but the pain.

Tapping footsteps were approaching and Eva inadvertently groaned in her distress, trying to make herself smaller along the side of the desk, but her body stung and ached viciously in places she never knew could feel such pain.

"Eva?"

She jerked as a face appeared near her own, a British voice speaking gently to her. With her whip-straight hair hanging limply over her brow Eva tried to focus. His face was smooth, a slight mustache decorating his upper lip, and his brown hair was neatly combed. He had crouched down, wrinkling the perfectly ironed folds of his impeccable trousers, and slowly reached out to her. "Eva? Are you well?"

With a small sound of anguish the blond leaned forward into his embrace, further sobs wracking her small chest as hushing noises filled her ears. Oh the first kind words, kind looks! He would help her! Somebody had to help her!

**Part Three**

And so Eva listened to the man's words though they brought her little comfort, and she reluctantly allowed herself to be bathed, her hair brushed thoroughly. She watched her reflection in the vanity without really seeing. Her typewriter had never seemed so far away, and before she robotically accepted a steaming cup of sweetened tea Eva wondered briefly where her father was hiding. James watched her drain the china dry.

That was how he introduced himself: James. The giant—or _the Fantom_ as James called the creature—was a madman who kept many imprisoned in this fortress. Doctor Draper was here as well, working deep in the Fantom's own factory in order to secure his daughter's survival.

"Now you must live for him."

Eva slipped in and out of sleep watching the freezing sky change from peacock blue to deepest black. The soap scent of her bruised skin was unnoticed; her lips felt useless; the gas light blinked and screamed and then the giant returned and showed her what those lips were for.

She did not try to bite or scratch, as James had warned her fiercely of his master's moods, but mostly as she could barely feel herself enough to care about the organ pulsing within the slickness of her mouth.


	11. HUnger

**Characters: Mina/Hyde**

**Rating: hard R**

**Author's Notes: Kidnapping, slight non-con, bloodplay**

As he slowly regained conciousness Edward grimaced at the sour metallic taste that plastered his lazy tongue, wondered hazily at the heavy weight that seemed to be holding his limbs down. His bloodshot eyes squinted disgustedly at the overpowering blinding electric lights that bounced off every piece of gilded silver in what he suddenly realized was Nemo's dispensary upon the Nautilus.

"What the...ruddy...Hell...!" Edward lifted his arms in what felt like a supreme effort but could not begin to budge the steel bands that enclosed his wrists and spread ankles. A cool breeze came and went along his mammoth thighs, which made Edward angrily aware that he was nude beneath a thin linen sheet.

"It's about time you woke up." Twisting his head, Edward's lip curled at the slowness of his reactions as well as the sight that met his bleary gaze.

"...Harker?" She was looking down at him with a medicinal smirk, her eyebrow raised in smug amusement. She was fully dressed, her velvet jacket open to reveal a high-necked black blouse, but her thick auburn hair trailed down over her shoulders and her pale hands remained uncovered.

"So you don't misunderstand," her fingers played upon the edge of his covering, slowly tugging it away from his body. "I put an agent in the scotch on your dresser. No one else knows you are here and you won't leave until your serum runs it's course when Henry can slip those bonds. It's that simple."

Edward had followed little of this one-sided conversation, focusing his fractured attention instead on the sensations being created by the linen sheet dragging across his legs and then exposing his flacid genitalia to the cool air and her bright blue eyes.

"You've injested a muscle relaxant along with a sedative Edward." He felt her hands upon his coarse knees, his eyebrows coming together as her form loomed over his legs, now upon the same table he was imprisoned on. What was the woman doing? To have the balls to keep him in this manner?! He wouldn't stand for it! As soon as he was released from these--

"You little chit!" he garbled. "What the fuck...are you..."

"Temper, temper Mr. Hyde," her tresses fell upon the flesh of his thighs and he blinked hard at a sudden wetness: Mina's tongue licking it's way across the bone of his hip. Her hands moved to cup the backs of his hairy thighs, her lips dragging down and inhaling the sleepy musk that emanated from his maleable skin.

"Do not worry. I knew that you could withstand the brunt of my desire. Only poor Henry will be left with the bruises."

Before Edward could choke out even half a strangled question, the woman's mouth enclosed upon his unexcited length, her tongue and upper palate sucking and stroking upon the slack tissue and drooping head. "And now that you know I can trap you thusly," she murrmurred, moving away from his slippery cock to the soft sacs beneath it, "I'm sure you realize how much safer it would be for you to keep your mouth shut." This was punctuated with a vicious scratch of her thumbnail across Edward's thick abdomen. Blood pebbled up, then flowed in a dark sweet line which her tongue lapped up eagerly.

Edward's body jerked and he tried to regain control, tried to shove the vampire away, and, when that didn't work, cursed the fact that he was receiving no pleasure, no pain from her ministrations.

When Mina's teeth sank into his hip Edward had already returned to the land of Nod.


	12. Best Served Cold

**Characters: Mina**

**Rating: PG**

**Author's Notes: Sequel to Hunger though could be read on it's own. I do plan on writing another piece or two to carry on this particular chain of events.**

The rhythm of Mina's breathing became less as she neared consciousness. Her head was nestled comfortably on the layers of her loose auburn hair and a soft downy pillow. She was wrapped snugly, warmly, in her familiar sheets and thickly-stitched quilt, her nose dipped down upon her right shoulder. It was itchy...

Perhaps she had rolled around too much, perhaps she had slept too deeply. The blankets were unnaturally snug.

Mina opened her blue eyes for the first time and her vision was met with pitch black. Not the darkness of her adopted room aboard the Nautilus with it's silver dimness, hardly a darkness at all. Not the sleepiness of her bedroom above the pharmacy, where lights from the street filtered in through her one scrubbed window. This darkness was pure. Not a spot of sunshine, starshine, tore through the blackness. And the blackness smelled of pine.


	13. Different

**Characters:** Tom/Skinner  
**Rating:** R  
**Author's Notes:** Set after Kenya. I don't ship non-canon slash and I don't write slash in general. I just wanted to write something a little different.

The gilded mirror that faced his bed told him little. Everywhere one looked about the shining metallic room only one image would be seen and Tom desperately wished he could have changed that fact. As his knees began to give way, his forehead dropping nearer and nearer to the pillow, Tom wished he could have glimpsed the face of the man behind him, to see if the movements between their bodies were having the same effect on the invisible thief as they were on him.

The deep stroking between his cheeks, the clenching, the feeling that if his lover only pushed a little further, _a little harder_, that something indescribable could be reached...

But for now Tom panted, his tanned fingers curling tightly into the bed linen as Skinner's curled around the delicate folds of his swollen balls. _Oh fuck he was coming undone!_

The thrusts were shorter now, faster, as Skinner's thighs banged against Tom's exposed flesh. The sharpshooter succumbed and collapsed on the bed, allowing the thief full rein on both their desire. Sweat glistened along Tom's sun-kissed skin as the Englishman rode out his climax with an animal grunt.

After a moment Tom felt the delicious sensation of Rodney's tongue travelling slowly up the contours of his spine.

"Well," the accented voice breathed into the blond's ear. "Are you ready for round two?"


	14. Coradine: Mina's Retreat

**Characters:** Mina; mentions of Mina/Alan; mentions of Edward.  
**Rating:**PG  
**Author's Notes:**Comic-verse. Inspired in part by Leonard Cohen's "Sisters of Mercy".

They welcomed her with silent smiles and put away her luggage with a nod. There was no need for personal goods here; they would supply all that Mina needed.

Dressed in a simple shift, her throat uncovered and unmentioned, the ladies of Coradine pulled the music teacher down to lay with them upon a sea of cushions and wool shawls. The peat fires were piled high, and one young woman softly began to comb out Mina's luminous hair, a whisper of a tune emanating from her closed lips.

For two days Mina lay in indulgent splendour and for two days she cried upon whatever breast was offered. She cried for Alan and her girlish devotion, their time together spent and now lost; his gaunt features still played before her eyes when, at night, a thigh inadvertantly lay upon her hip.

She cried for Edward and his self-sacrifice and how the world would only ever see him as a brute no matter how many English parks were named in his honour.

Mostly though--as she lay upon the lithe forms, the brown curves, the wrinkled limbs of the ladies of Coradine--Mina cried for herself. She would weep over her husband's rejection at her disfigurement. She would weep over the quick passion she had found in the arms of an old man. She would weep over lost opportunity and the memory of Edward's firm, bestial grip on her bosom would ignite her senses to madness until water touched her ravenous mouth and all was once again silent.

Mina would cry for herself and think,

_Thank you Lord! Thank you for sparing me and taking them! I want to live! I want to survive! Thank you! Thank you!_


	15. Eva's Escape

**Title:** What? (4/4)

**Characters:** Eva Draper, James Moriarty/The Fantom, mentions of Tom and Alan.

She hadn't seen him but the compound was full of his smell, his aura, that brought the only piece of light and serenity into her endless nightmarish existence. She felt hallow and used, no longer caring about the pain as the Giant's teeth bit and bruised, as he found ways to degrade her further without leaving a visible mark. Her jaw ached; there was not an opening of her body that had not been fed on his flesh.

Eva welcomed the opiates and tried to forget the sound of her own voice. Even in that pool where she was left alone she was anxiously aware of her breathing, the hissing rattle in her chest, and wished to stop breathing altogether: to make no sound, to not blink, to not swallow.

Her throat burned from constant swallowing, disgusted at the taste that lingered on her lips.

Walking across the room that was her prison, Eva did not notice the two armed men who had snuck their way into the Fantom's secret industrial mansion. An old hunter and a young buck, their strangeness did not disturb her haze.

_His_ voice did.

The side table had been laid for dinner and there Eva stood, frozen, as _his_ voice grated, speaking to...Who was he speaking to?

Her eyes became wild, her mouth a livid gash. It just couldn't be. The same person...her saviour and...

The realization ripped through her, tore worse than the brutal penetration, again and again and again!

How Eva came to wrap her thin fingers around the ivory handled kinfe, how she managed to take those first few steps: none of it mattered now as she screamed and raced forward, blade lifted as she envisioned it hacking into his masked face.

Missed! Oh God she missed! And _they_--whoever _they _were--they were keeping her back, stopping her from running after him and teaching him what power truly was. She wanted his blood! She wanted his weapons cut from his body and brought to her father to show she could still retain her honour, she wasn't destroyed, she could still be Herr Draper's special little girl!

And then the tears began, like a dam suddenly breached, and she shook like one possessed, not comprehending that liberation was upon her doorstep when his essence still blocked the threshold.


	16. Mina and Hyde's Game Continues

Continues from **_"Hunger"_** and **_"Best Served Cold"_**

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Time is a relative concept. Through which of the five senses do we recognize the passage of time and believe it?

Is it only by witnessing the fiery orb of Helios dip and rise again that we accept the coming of a new day? Is it on the wind, the scent of hours passing? Minutes? Seconds? Can we hear it through the call of the waking lark, or taste it in the coffee shops springing up like influenza in the streets of London? Can we feel it in a stolen kiss?

Confined in the darkness, her hands numb and chafed by constant struggle, her ears full of nothingness, her nose stuffed with the scent of dank moss and earth, her mouth devoid of warm ichor, Mina had become something unnatural. Wrapped in this claustrophobic world Mina could not record the passage of time; she slept, she woke, she squirmed and fought against the blankets stolen from her own bed. Her skin paled; her forehead bled and healed and bled as she lifted herself repeatedly, trying any way possible to smash the wooden ceiling so close above her.

How long had it been? The confusion and rage, fear and hunger, would have had Mina believe years. A breath of open air would have told her different, a drop of warm blood to ease her powder dry throat. But who would have been brave enough to face the untamed beast now?

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Hyde liked cigars. He liked how they felt between his sausage fingers, how they tasted--like soot and earth and butchered carcass upon his tongue--and how the smell stayed with him throughout the dark night. He knew Jekyll did too, if the runt would ever admit it, but as it now stood the good doctor would only enjoy a cigar in the privacy of his own laboratory, reading over Moriarty's old notes or a well-used copy of Shakespearean sonnets. Hyde could have thrown up. Cigars were a man's business and puny cocksucker Henry Jekyll should have either smoked them with gusto or left them for real connoisseurs.

Yep. Cigars and women. Either enjoy them as much as possible or don't enjoy them at all. When Hyde had finally gotten around to really thinking this situation through he had realized it came down to one simple fact: if Henry had spent more time fucking Mina Harker than being a voyeur and waxing poetically when the vampire was out of earshot Hyde never would have found himself bound naked to a table with his cock as limp as a dead fish! It didn't matter that Henry had had to deal with the nausea and the confusion and the Goddamn bite marks the next day. Hyde had watched while Harker's smug face lowered to his body and took what it wanted. She hadn't even allowed him the use of his hands!

That was why Edward felt no guilt about his actions after wards. He had no guilt about breaking in to that building she called a pharmacy and sneaking upstairs to her living space, stealing Mina from her bed sheets and all through the use of a simple morphine injection. There was no guilt when he hammered shut the lid of the stolen coffin, and there certainly wasn't any guilt while he shoveled the musty country soil on top of it.

Hyde exhaled and watched with a crooked grin as the smoke circled his large skull then disappeared to wherever dead smoke disappeared when air and elements were done tormenting. A farmer's shovel rested under his elbow and the fucking owls had finally shut up. It was a good night.

Would Snow White be a bit more pleasant after two weeks underground? Hyde would enjoy himself either way.


	17. Sent to the Vatican and what does she do

**Author's Notes:** This came from an LXG rp I was once a part of. Mary Reilly belongs to Valerie Martin, not me. Father Marcus is an original character, agin not owned by me--though he's so evily delicious!!! Any way thanks to those who are reading this fic. Until I actually checked the stats I just assumed I was writing this for my own pleasure but now I see that it seems others are getting pleasure from this as well! Cheers!

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She tried not to clench her eyes too tightly; she tried not to do anything at all. The constant hushing whisperings in her ear made that difficult, as did the muscled body lying alongside her own on the plain bed: a single. How it had come to this point and why she had ultimately agreed to meet in his chambers at this hour Mary couldn't recall right now, not with Father Marcus' fingers stroking over her flushed flesh.

He had smiled when she entered the room, taking her hand and ushering her first to the hearth. Soft touches followed, innocent touches, where he would smooth out the layers of her long red hair, following it's wave down to where it ended at the edge of her hip. Mary knew deep down that this night would not end as innocently and as she caught a glimpse of another smile playing upon Marcus' full mouth as they moved to the bed Mary realized that he knew this as well.

And so she tried to hold her breath when she rested her head against one pillow which smelled of his dark hair, but that lasted as long as the priest's self-control and at the first touch of his hand on her shoulder Mary's chest began to rapidly rise and fall. His deep voice urged for caution and yet the words spoke of her beauty and gentleness and—above all—that she had nothing to fear from his love nor her own desire. It would be a lie, after all, to say she was indifferent to the warm press against her throat or the way he moved his attentions to the neckline of her gown and the simple ribbon that held the material closed. Every nerve tingled at each caress but whether from fear of the unknown or her believed sinful lust Mary did not know.

She turned to him when he requested it, lips slightly parted and exhaling—unable to do much of anything when Marcus pushed her sleeve down, his hand quickly sliding to cover an exposed breast. Mouth fast upon hers to cover the gasps, Mary could offer no resistance as his weight rested over her unexpectedly: a broad frame pressing down against small angles.

His white collar was nowhere to be seen.


	18. Vatican Part Two

**Part One**

She couldn't let anyone else take her laundry this week, she couldn't let any of the scurrying chamber maids or knotty-limbed, lumbering laundresses see the evidence of her fall from innocence, her shame. She was utterly ruined now; no more chances. Any thought of work outside of service, of having her own home and…perhaps…ever having her own family, were now gone like so much ash up a chimney.

And the stain would not come out! As if God was marking her for the scarlet woman she was: how dare she sin in this Holy See! how dare she drag a man of the cloth into her unholy lust! The eyes of the Lord were upon Mary and they saw one word emblazoned: WHORE.

Burn it! She would have to burn this nightgown and purchase another…when? Staff were never paid as regularly here as she had been at home in London, and even those precious few afternoons off were filled with expected prayer meetings and unexpected kitchen duties. But some good hot water—not the tepid wash water supplied by sullen little boys before dawn had ever even crested the horizon—would return the cheap cotton to it's former pristine state: white and clean and the eyes could forget.

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**Part Two**

It had taken her all day but Mary had finally succeeded in sneaking away from Senora Gribardi—the head maid on the fourth floor—to silently creep into the second chapel where soft candlelight illuminated the simple stone room. Monseignor Ambrosius would be in the confessional tonight, a kindly, ageing, hard of hearing sort of priest who listened to the sins and woes of most of the Vatican's lower staff.

Mary took a breath and pushed aside the dark velvet curtain, sitting gently down upon the cushion and tapping lightly on the small window. If she could just get the words off her chest, just explain what had happened even if her confessor would never really hear the story of her fall, then perhaps a measure of this _guilt_ would ease off of her shoulders.

"Bless me Monseignor for I have sinned. It has been five days since my last confession."

"Eh? And how long has it been since your last confession my child?"

"…Five days Monseignor."

He sounded sick, even with the confusing Italian with which Mary still struggled.

"Monseignor—"

"Eh? And what have you come to confess?"

Mary took a breath, her hands busy twisting her apron, cheeks red in the darkness.

"I-I've made a very bad error—"

"Terror? Eh? What are you afraid of my child?"

"Not terror Monseignor, error! I have sinned very badly."

"Eh?"

"I have lain with a man Monseignor! I have fornicated in this City of God! I've…I've led a man of the cloth to sin! I have ruined myself!"

Mary bowed her head, trembling, pressing the heel of her left palm to her eyes in hopes of stopping the build up of tears. It was a release but she wasn't finished; there was someone else she needed to confess for even if he would never admit it.

"Eh? Say three Benedictions and a Rosary and light a candle to Saint Theresa before you leave."

"B-But I'm not finished Monseignor—"

"Eh! I know all about your sins Mary."

In that moment Mary's countenance portrayed a range of emotions, the worst of which was abject humiliation as she opened the curtain to race away only to face Father Marcus, the collar of his cassock pulled up over his lips to disguise his voice. And now, his laughter.

"Father! How could—"

"I am always surprised at the sorts of things women confess Mary," he let the collar slip down his chin, a chilling smirk coating his face. "Even you my dear. You haven't led me anywhere."

Mary's cheeks burned underneath the drip of shameful tears sliding from wet eyelashes. She gripped the sides of the confessional intending to pull herself up when the bigger man's hand snatched out to grasp her upper arm.

"But I'll be leading you somewhere right now."

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to be continued….


	19. Mina and Jonathan interlude

"_Jonathan please! I thought we had decided…That you had accepted—"_

"_I can't accept this Mina! This hasn't been a marriage since we left Transylvania."_

The clerk was flying back and forth between his study and their bedroom, a locked valise resting in the hallway while he gathered the remainder of his belongings. Mina had finished her music lessons for the day only twenty minutes ago and had returned to find what remained of her former life preparing to walk right out of it.

Life had not been easy since her foray into carnage and occultist danger abroad. While the horror surrounding Lucy's death could finally be laid to rest, Mina and Jonathan's relationship had become strained to say the least. The woman had tried to ignore the distance that had settled between them after Van Helsing's return to the Continent. Even with bandages still wrapped around her torn throat, concealed beneath an ever-present velvet scarf, she never mentioned the pain for fear of making Jonathan think on something better left unthought. She stiffly ignored the fact that her husband spent most of his evenings at the bank, that he caught cat naps in the parlour.

"_Perhaps we simply need a change of scenery dear, a holiday! Italy would be lovely this time of year—"_

"_Good God Mina, I've just come back! What? Do you want me to be sacked?"_

"_I want you to love me Jonathan! I want you to stay here, be my husband! Talk to me!"_

She tried to reach out to him, to halt his progress, to make him look her in the eye. Jonathan wouldn't allow contact and thus stopped short to step around Mina and retrieve his coat.

"_I've tried to talk to you Mina—"_

"_You have not tried—"_

"—_And it doesn't work! You've changed and there's more that I do not recognize as the days go by. I'm not living here; I'm looking over my shoulder, and I can't accept that anymore. I can't—I can't accept you!"_

Mina—who had been quickly building up a bubbling anger—stood stock still at the end of Jonathan's explanation. Her green eyes wavered as she watched her husband's disgusted countenance, listened to his scathing accusations, dimly aware of the papers he dropped on her bureau.

"_I'll send someone to collect these tomorrow."_

She did not follow when he proceeded to the door; she did not call out or plead. Mina looked at their bed which had become her bed long before tonight and a hand slowly inched it's way towards her mutilated neck. With a snap of her elbow she brought the hand away. Such talented hands, now burdened with the marking of her husbands broken promises. She stood in their bedroom for some time as events played themselves over in her head, mocking her, torturing her, enlightening her. . .

_"Till death do us part."_

Mina signed the papers.


	20. Mina and Hyde's Game Continues 2

It hears digging, a heavy clinking of English soil and stone coming from above and getting increasingly closer. It can hear grunting and swearing and occasional laughter. It doesn't like this laughter because It knows this laughter does not bode well. It's eyes are red balls of wet substance rolling incessantly in the utter darkness, sniffing at the inhuman sweat trickling down into the earth and into It's nostrils. It smells angry blood in thumping thick veins and a pointed tongue flicks out to lick cracked lips. It's nails are ragged, broken from clawing everything in the confined black box, and now they flex stiffly against the wood.

Anticipation still exists in this lost state—almost the only thing, but It knows better. Anticipation, rage, and hunger: they all live and seethe within It's form, waiting to be released--_Soon so soon_--to tear into this shifting mass of meat above It. This Meat too has rage; the amusement swims within the rage, liking the violence, the carnage, and getting too much enjoyment out of it all. It is not amused. It's lip curls, spittle forming, spiked teeth aching to rip and feed.

A rapid wrenching, squeal of nails from wood and It hissed, jerking like a skewered snake as a blinding light fell directly upon It.

_Blood from Meat! Blood from Meat!_

And then the shovel fell.

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She was a twisting, snarling creature, chained by the throat to a thick iron ring in the cellar of a crumbling barn. Spittle clung to extended fangs, dribbling over bloodless, cracked lips while crimson eyes glared out into the gas light, crawling like ravenous maggots over the figure huddled on the stone out of arms reach.

Her once crisp, pristine sheets were covered with old earth, torn to ribbons by her frayed and broken nails; mutilated fingertips flayed raw flesh onto her soiled nightgown. Her knees were bent at awkward angles, showing off long patches of china white thigh, and her head twitched, lank hair falling over a forehead bathed in the sweat of death.

Henry had never seen anything like it—she fascinated and repulsed—and all he could do was bite his knuckles and pray to whatever God that would listen that that chain and ring would hold the she-beast at bay.

He still bore the marks of her elicit assault, deep purple bruises that made him blush to think of her lush red mouth touching him below the waistline. His eyelids fluttering, he would catch himself, pulling back before his clammy hand could caress the crease that joined thigh and groin.

How could life be so unkind? Her medications had interfered with his own serum, forestalling transformation yet leaving all the delights to Hyde. Didn't she see how much _he_ wanted her? To touch that hair, to feel those educated hands along _his_ flesh and bone?

Henry gave a ragged sigh, dragging his teeth over one worried thumb as he felt the effects of such lustful thoughts on his already taut frame. He stood, clenching long-fingered hands into desperate fists as the demon let out a screeching hiss at his retreating form. How long before the others started to ask questions? How long would he be able to keep her here?

_As long as I want._


	21. Tom's Penance

In the private of her cabin Tom gives up all pretences of control. All smirks and rhetoric, all American banter is left on her threshold. She will allow nothing less then complete obedience, and if Tom wants to writhe upon Mina's starched sheets he will comply.

He allows the Oxford heels to press into his spine—there's really no choice—and whimpers into the pillows that smell of her soap and hair. But it isn't Mina he thinks of when blood dribbles around his waist, and it isn't Mina he thinks of when he sees the black bruises in the mirror two days later.

Tom goes to Mina for the torture and humiliation he cannot take out on himself. He hopes the vampires will find what's left of his childhood each time she brings the leather strap down upon his shoulders or sinks her teeth into the bronzed flesh of his thigh. He hopes she will extract the memories that make him hate himself at night, that make him shudder and reach for things best left untouched in such a state. Tom needs these memories forgotten, he needs them washed away, for when he returns to Becky he refuses to have the ghost of Huckleberry Finn between them on their wedding night.

When he holds Becky in his arms for the first time, Tom does not want to remember Huck's calloused hands or rough cheeks. He does not want to remember Huck's taste. Becky's visage must replace these memories, and with each drop of blood she takes Tom hopes Mina will transform his thoughts of Huck into something pure.

This is his penance.

For Becky's sake.


	22. Mahette

**A/N:** Here are a some-what-connected series of snippets about an original character that was created for a _League _rpg, Mahette du Bavin. She is mentally unstable and before she became wrapped up in League life had been shut away in an asylum. I think it's important to know that she was brought up by her mother's wealthy second husband, not her own father and that in today's world she would have been able to find the help she needed. Takes place in 19th century New Orleans.

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**1:**

Mahette giggled as the pinched-face French woman wrapped her slim form in layers of lace and brocade, measuring her girlish neck with a series of velvet ribbons that felt like fox fur against the young woman's smooth skin.

No, her Nana was not the most attractive but her elderly fingers were gentle and her small beady eyes did not reproach the fourteen year olds glee. It was a new season after all and every well bred girl should be delighted with a brand new wardrobe.

Cream, yellow, and snow white petticoats hung in neat lines in her armoire while a rainbow's worth of silk rolls lay stacked upon her canopied bed waiting to become short sleeved frocks and ruffled night dresses.

Mahette twirled in front of the three standing mirrors, her dark locks curling sweetly down her back, resting softly against her blushing cheeks. A hazy sunset streaked through her bedroom windows showering the polished marble floor with light of pink and azure.

"Monsieur will let me welcome the ladies tomorrow night. Theresé told me Mademoiselle Henri Zidane will be wearing a ruby necklace as big as my fist!" She gave a laugh filled with happiness and wonder, admiring her image in the shimmering glass. Tomorrow night she would be invited to the dancefloor by actual guests, not just the teasing waltzes she had often shared with her step brothers. Would she be introduced to her future husband? Would he have fine horses like Monsieur or would he own a ship bound for the Orient? O maybe a soldier…

"I don't think I would like to marry a soldier. I would worry too much..."

"I doubt any soldiers have been invited, ma Papillion."

Mahette spun around as her governess Madame Amelie entered the room with a pitcher of warm bathing water. A very light smile touched the rotund woman's face as she took a quick glance about the empty room, finally resting her darting eyes on the little bastard her master had been saddled with. Monsieur may have claimed Mahette du Bavin as his own but the child's mother was nothing but a common whore.

"Who were you talking to, ma enfant?" The girl was such a silly thing, always talking to herself and prancing through the gardens. At least she was always well behaved at Monsieur's gatherings. Amelie watched Mahette turn back to her mirrors, noting an odd mask that seemed to have fallen upon the girl's face. "Or were they merely private wishes?"

"...Oui Madame. Only wishes."

**2:**

She stood erect, a confused slightly concerned look upon her porcelain face. Her breath came in measured, open-mouthed puffs as she tried to make sense of what had come of her surroundings.

It was as if someone had placed wet wadded cotton in her ears and a coin under her tongue, but her eyes were wide watching the gaping lips of the frazzled stallions, their lolling tongues and snorting nostrils. There was a slowness to their movements that Mahette didn't understand and which the voice beyond her right shoulder didn't care to explain. It was laughing at her softly now, the one sound she could hear in all the silence; she didn't know how the long blade had found it's way into her delicate palm.

Luca, a sturdy stablehand was coming towards her with his hands held up. His lovely mouth was moving but she shook her head, dazed, not knowing what he wanted of her. She was only a young woman but she knew he was beautiful. Mahette turned her head sharply as a snicker tickled the shell of her ear, a light touch against her shoulder. She had walked out of the mansion without Monsieur's or her nurse's knowledge and had forgotten her robe.

It wasn't cold but she was beginning to miss her down pillows and soft sheets. How had she made it to the stables?

The voice was spilting again and sending shards into her skull, the words fractured and tormenting; she brought a shaky hand up to her uncombed tresses, a black sheet falling down her slim frame. The knife shone and Mahette felt a sadness fill her vision. Luca had her wrist and was reaching for the other. His mouth moved wordlessly and Mahette crumpled, unable to hear her own sob as it turned into a scream, drizzled into a whimper. She had dug the point of the blade into the flithy ground of Monsieur's stable. The tendons of Luca's neck were stretched. He was calling out to someone in the beyond...

_You could make his heart crack if you wanted to._

**3:**

And the light  
And the light  
And the light and I find streaks on the floor and streaks on my body and it hurts to breathe and I wish my toes would listen to my thoughts

My toes are tiny maggots  
My teeth are crickets and they click and bite and snap and try to escape the pushing in my mouth and other mouths

The cold is not frightening anymore it does not cause me to shriek in shadows or hide in corners

The warmth and the pushing and I cry and no one listens no one ever listens

But for now there is no talking there are no voices just my mouth agape and the dust mites on my shift and mold creeping towards me in leaps and bounds there is silence and my eyes are dry

I want a soft brush and a warm bath and a soothing glance but no no no no those steps those clumps and there will be keys and a sound

Stop talking disappear turn into the wall and I can only sit I cannot run my stomach will not let me be and my strings have been cut

Sing softly sweetly sing it with a voice move gums jaw tongue and yet I am sitting with a ceiling and a step outside

I want to be a cricket  
Small  
Away from the light

_"We will take supreme care of your daughter Monsieur--"  
"She is not my daughter Doctor Beaumont. She is only my ward."  
"Of course. We will start a series of treatments at once. Hopefully you will see some improvement on your return from Boston."  
"Of course."_


	23. And the happy times end

Mina felt light. There was a breeze in her stiff steps that had not been present in more then a decade. She had actually paid attention to the mirror this evening--quite a feat--adding some paint to her stern lips after she was finished with more unpleasant tasks. The thick black choker did not seem too constricting tonight nor the London mob so tedious.

Mina had been carrying on with this affair for two months--_Affair?!_ As if she was a blushing maid, an innocent, untried virgin with clean hands and a suitor waiting at home. This night was not special or different from weeks of other nights; a gathering, a dance, refreshments afterwards. But the velvet jacket caressed the bare skin of her chest instead of the usual starched white blouse. The black dress was new. New and light.

He was not expecting her though, not really. Mina had thought she would be knee-deep in the laboratory all night, but that was now not the case, and as she smiled to the host and hostess for once the chemist felt that she would never spend a full night in her lab again.

_There._

A larger crowd than she had anticipated, Mina's advancement through the parlour was slow, but he was already there. His laughter gave him away. Debonaire as always in a perfectly cut suit and ever-present cane--though Mina could attest to his virility--she found herself stopping her pursuit as another laugh followed.

The girl was petite, blond locks falling like angel clouds about slim shoulders and a delicate bust. The lavender dress could only enhance the snowflake cheeks. And suddenly Mina felt very heavy indeed, for Dorian's gaze had fallen upon her darker visage while he stood next to the pale flower; and with his name dying on Mina's lips, asking for explanation, he turned away and continued to laugh.


	24. Unexpected Interruptions

There were bitterly few debutantes present this evening, or so he heard noted by a group of street doctors masquerading as medical academics. He had issued quite a few invitations to this gathering but he doubted they had been on the list. It really didn't matter though. The serving staff were merely a less riotous gang of pick-pockets, cleaned and scrubbed and paid well for their silence, while the milk white wench escorting couples into the ballroom was the illegitimate daughter of the doting Archbishop of Cull. Dorian had to smile. The Archbishop had not been seen in London for many years, much to the relief of orphan boys and flower girls everywhere.

The dapper gentleman popped a grape into his mouth and began his rounds. Any other man in his place would have avoided the Motherland as well—he was a wanted criminal after all—but this was a special occasion, and Berlin or St. Petersburg just didn't exude the same amount of sin that only London could provide. The manor reeked of it and only fuelled his passion. Greed, debauchery, revenge seekers, widows, and clerks, forgotten duchesses: Dorian had chosen his invitees carefully, a subtle blend of vice and the nearly-virtuous. Innocence was harder and harder to come by these days and what was even more difficult was securing it's attendance to a function in the seedier part of town with a guest list that could make a Jade seek safer pastures for her revels.

But accommodations were perfect for Dorian's needs and he smiled silkily as he glanced around the ballroom with a clear brown gaze. The hired musicians were in full tempo, taffeta and satin spinning along the gleaming oak floor, and wine was happily being guzzled on all sides; tall floral arrangements obscured corners and side compartments, several of which, he was pleased to note, were currently in use. It reminded Dorian acutely that he had plans to make for the rest of the evening.

_Too tall…Too ugly…Too pale…Not pale enough…_His pressed suit moved like a lover around his legs, the linen creases impeccable, collar and cuffs spotless and each pair of eyes that met his own reflected his perfection, each mouth opening to offer silent pleas of pleasure. Useless as always, but he would have to deign to take one—it was tradition after all. He stopped to re-examine his dashed good looks in a gilt framed mirror but his fingers halted before they could sweep across dark brows. _Black?_ It was not the usual colour of feminine garment for these sorts of festivities—the hue of choice being a cerulean blue more akin to present Italian styles—and he was surprised he had not noticed it before when so little these days held any surprise. But Dorian noticed now, feeling a chill rush through his unnatural body as the woman's face turned to greet his from across the room. She lifted a champagne glass to full red lips and ever so slightly tilted her auburn head. Mocking. He could not leave _now_! Everything was ready: the guests, the flowers, the ceiling! _Cold blooded bitch!_ He turned back to more important things, perusing his reflection two moments more and utterly ignoring the linen clad nemesis that moved amongst his guests behind him. For the time being.

Claiming a glass of burgundy from a passing tray, Dorian slipped into conversation with two golden beauties before his eyes began searching again. He had evaded _them_ for so long—how had she found him here?! He caught the trail of black in his peripheral vision and turned to see her move into an adjoining parlour. Strange. Dorian would have assumed _she_ would have been more direct than that, meeting him face to face for an intoxicating tango before calling out her derelict lackeys, increasing Dorian's expected embarrassment factor tenfold when they finally arrested him in front of the social elite. Fortunately for him his guests were far from elite and had more to entertain themselves than watching their host follow a woman who looked as if she had been in mourning longer then Queen Victoria.

"Are you lost?"

Dorian raised a dark eyebrow and his glass as he leaned slightly against the doorframe, his gaze drawling slowly up over Mrs. Harker's curvaceous figure. Harker. How he had hated that name, that man! In the early days bedding a widow such as Mina had been somewhat of a challenge for a man of his skills, but what had been harder still was attempting to remove the memory of Jonathan Harker. To make her forget would have been glorious—and Dorian had tried; theirs had been a heated relationship, not without some affection on her side—but no. The beautiful, strong, independently forward thinking _Mrs. Harker_ had been desperately in love with her late husband, and even while they pleasured each other Dorian knew he would never be able to throw that marriage in her face, would never be able to use betrayal of Jonathan Harker's memory to rip her heart in pieces. He knew better now though. _Mrs. Harker_ did not have a heart to rip—break yes, but not rip. Her organ was surprisingly resilient.

"Lost? Not at all Mina. This is my home after all, if only for the time being." Colouring aside, her ensemble was not fashionable. The linen was unadorned, skirt and bodice too simple for the occasion though a thick corset of velvet served to enhance her already bountiful endowments. Whatever else one could say about the insufferable bitch Mina had the finest set of tits Dorian had ever seen.

"I have it on good account that the former owners of this manor have been permanently displaced," she was running her chemically scarred fingertips over the rim of a large ceramic vase. "But you wouldn't know anything about that. Would you Dorian?" He quirked his lips and took a step, then another into the parlour.

"Oh Mina." He placed his wine down, giving her a predatory smirk. "Are we going to dance around past incidences until your young moral saviours come to break up my soiree or will we skip directly to the chase where you inevitably tell me all anyway?" Mina stopped, her heels clicking sharply, and tilted her chin to give him an indifferent look verging on appraising. Dorian, on the other hand, did not halt his deliberate stride, following the vampire's easy glide while his hand stole beneath the soft fabric of his vest, thankful for the giant decorations. The last time he and Mina had met unannounced a specialty crafted pocket watch had occupied the position closest to his heart. Now it was a Hungarian made silver blade. "Why _did_ you come here tonight Mina? Were you tired of associating with the unwashed masses?" He watched the smooth, tanned skin of her bare shoulders move gently up and down with the breaths he was almost completely convinced she did not truly need. His gaze travelled down the length of her spine, resting on the swell of her backside that was quite clearly her own, not some bump concocted by bustles or hoops. Pure flesh lay beneath that dark fabric and Dorian suddenly knew how he would be spending the rest of the evening.

Moving faster than he had in years Dorian had the blade pressed against the hollow of her throat, his arm flush around Mina's waist feeling the boning of her corset dig into the muscle of his covered forearm. "Cat got your tongue?"

"Perhaps it was my way of dealing with the memories." Her voice was controlled and could have frozen dripping wax. Dorian's lip curled as he nudged Mina's jaw with the bottom of his chin. He had never been a masochist but her voice always brought back fantasies of crop-wielding governesses and wide-eyed school girls and he felt his arousal press tightly within the confines of his trousers.

"By arriving here without an invitation? Why Mina, I didn't know you cared." Three rushing steps had her shoved cruelly against the parlour wall, two feet of space hiding them both from prying eyes as the music swelled. Dorian's breath came hot upon the back of Mina's neck while hers…hers was barely there. "Where are the claws now Mina?" His right wrist was surrounded by the covered globes of her luscious breasts, the knife still pointing precariously towards sensitive flesh, and if the lady did not want red stains on her dress she would have to continue arching back into his lean torso.

Or move. Why was his cold, blood thirsty suffragette playing the helpless victim? Dorian began to raise her skirt, the fabric bunching in his hand where it sat upon her hip. No bloomers that he could feel, only firm thigh and ass, but he watched intrigued as Mina raised her arms, palms flat against the wall. "Well, well, well," his tongue snaked out to lick a line beneath her ear. "Memories indeed." His front buttons were flicked open, both hands falling to meld against the mounds of her backside painfully while the blade clattered to the floor seconds later.

It was not about her pleasure. They did not like each other, they had tried to kill each other on several occasions, and the fact that she had interrupted him tonight of all nights did not appeal to his proud nature as a lothario. He probed the puckered entrance between her cheeks and grunted. "I won't let you ruin my traditions Mina," he stroked his engorged member. "You'll have to stay for the festivities after all." Shifting his hips, Dorian pressed the head of his cock to her ass and pushed, sheathing himself entirely inside her tight ring of muscles. Mina inhaled sharply—once—but otherwise her countenance remained the same: aloof, cold, unconcerned—even if Dorian had cared to see her reaction to his brutality.

Thrusting increased, the movement of his thighs pushing hers further apart as his cock drove deeper and deeper: his nails would leave cutting marks on her hips—not permanent marks, but marks nonetheless. If one tossed aside their more recent history—and the fact that at midnight the ballroom ceiling would fall, killing all those slobbering devotees of lust and sin who had come happily to their deaths—he and Mina could very likely continue this act indefinitely throughout eternity without any real damage to either one of them. Well certainly not to him, and Dorian had seen Mina heal quickly enough. His ardour increased, knowing how much better it could be if she screamed, if she fought, but it was too late for questions as his member swelled between her unresponsive flesh, and blood rushed, a tugging at the base of his spine as he came with a last cruel thrust, pushing Mina hard into the wall and pulling free with an ugly wet sound to see his infertile seed drip down her ass and thighs.

Dorian stepped back and took out his handkerchief, tucking himself away with minimal effort and tossing the soiled cloth at Mina's feet. Mina's hands slid down the wall and efficiently moved her skirts back in place, turning to give Dorian another appraising look, her lip curling slightly and revealing the first hint of emotion he had seen all night.

"Why Mina," Dorian gave his patented glance of fake sympathy, secretly wondering how he would be able to make her stay till midnight; she would most undoubtedly survive but Mrs. Harker's crushed body would be a soothing revenge for the months he spent in the ruins of Moriarty's Mongolian fortress. "Did your memories fail you?"

"I think your hearing has failed you."

Dorian raised an eyebrow, his hand stilling in its search for his snuff box.

"Like everything else Mina, my hearing is perfect…" But something _was_ off. The music. The orchestra had stopped playing. His face dropped to a deep frown. "Well bugger it all." Without a second glance at _her_ Dorian raced back into the ballroom. Empty.

"You conniving little slut!" he roared, turning back to watch Mina stroll easily through the doorway. "Did you bring your insignificant band of cock suckers down upon my door?!" Mina did not even blink.

"It's ironic that you would know more of sucking than I, Dorian." His eyes narrowed and he raised a fist, intent on making the bitch pay for spoiling this for him, for spoiling his anniversary and the intricate plans he had made to make this night perfect. A gargantuan hand fell upon his neck, preventing even one step. Dorian rolled his eyes through the choking. _Can't these bastards ever die?!_

"No ceilings will be falling tonight Dorian, or ever again," Mina spoke in that silkily cool voice of hers, accepting a long jacket from seemingly out of no where. _Skinner_. "Your hands are bloodied enough." Her green eyes flickered to a point several feet above his head and Dorian was nauseated to see the curve of a smile. "Mycroft will wish to speak to this cretin as soon as possible Edward, but you needn't be afraid of using kid gloves. Mr. Gray heals quickly enough." There was a deep rumbling laugh that Dorian could feel through the meaty hand clamped around his throat down to his polished shoes.

"Just as you say Mina. Just as you say."


	25. Jekyll tries romance and chaos insues

A/N: This isn't really dark. It was written as a holiday present to a friend on lj, but it inspired the next chapter soo...Yeah. And the bolded section are Hyde's thoughts to Jekyll. Enjoy!

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They had been in Hong Kong for two months tracking the intricate world of an opium king-pin and psychopathic mad man labelled the "Devil Doctor" by London intelligence. Half their informants in Asia had sworn Fu Manchu was dead, killed by long time enemy and renegade commissioner Sir Denis Nayland Smith. The other half refused to speak at all, offering dire warnings and drugged tea in lieu of cold hard facts or solid evidence to the Si-Fan, no matter how many conversations they inevitably had with Edward or Nemo's sword. Cover had been blown one evening at the British Embassy where Skinner was surprisingly detected by the Devil's daughter Fah Lo Suee—elegant lady of high society and deadly warrior in her own right—prompting suspicion that one Sanderson Reed had already made contact with the Oriental underworld.

Everyone had been in a prickly disposition since then, interaction on the Nautilus brought to a stand still except for Skinner's periodic retching and vocalized fears that Miss Fitzgerald would smell _'that rice lovin' harpy'_ all over him, much to the irritation of the rest of the crew. The London docks had been a welcome sight if just to allow a physical separation from everyone else, but Jekyll—seeing Mrs. Harker's complete and utter abhorrence at hunting for two months of their lives only to have everything go to pot through the violent hysterics of a young woman—knew a distraction of some sort was in order.

**I can distract her Henry. Oh yes, I think Mina would take well to my methods of distraction.**

Henry needed a break as well but unfortunately he was permanently closeted with his main irritant and separation was impossible. Off to Clerkenwell it was then, in hopes of quiet relaxation and refreshment. And the fact that it would only be he and Mrs. Harker sharing a booth and pleasant conversation…well no one could blame Henry for the nervous smile creeping up his face. Mina was a remarkable woman and he felt that they had grown closer in the time following Mongolia. Even if Edward had been the visible personality for most of the last two months.

Sitting across from the auburn haired vampire a mere hour after disembarking from the Nautilus, Henry Jekyll could admit that the evening wasn't going as well as he would have liked. The coffee house—like all the coffee houses on Clerkenwell this time of night—was filled with clerks, city brokers, and labourers either beginning or finishing the night with a drink and a newspaper. There was no private booth but only two stiff-backed chairs and a small round table to rest upon, and the acrid scent of sweat intermingled with the bitter coffee flavour permanently imbedded into the floorboards and curtains. A small plate of powdered pastries rested between them along with an awkward silence that seemed claustrophobic amidst the cheerful background noise.

"Would you care for something else to drink?" Henry made a motion to the untouched cup of cream-filled coffee sitting in front of the beautiful chemist. Mina's bright blue eyes fell upon Henry and she tilted her head as if considering a piece of dust under her microscope.

"I am still trying to fathom why you brought me here Doctor." Her voice was low and aloof like always, and—like always—as cold as the frost on Parliament's steps. "We have been through an incredibly tiring ordeal, the last two weeks near unbearable...and the moment we arrive home you decide the best form of entertainment would be a crowded coffee house and nourishment of which only you can partake?"

Henry almost choked on a doughy, sugared confection.

**Yes Henry. I can see you know exactly what our lady wants.**

"M-my a-a-apologies Mina," Jekyll brought a napkin across his mouth and chin, controlling the volume of his voice. "Yes, of course. How terribly insensitive of me." Desserts. Good God man, she never ate desserts, her new biology unable to process the heavy sugars or wheat. The coffee…Oh. The waiter had made them both the same, hers filled with the dairy Henry liked so much but which Mina couldn't stand. "...I suppose you're hungry then." Mina raised an eyebrow, her lips thinning, and then reached up to gently pull the black veil of her hat back down.

"I think it would be wise if I went home now. There are things I need to check on."

She didn't mean the Nautilus and Henry had to place his hands in his lap lest Edward suddenly have an urge to crush the coffee cup.

"Yes. Of course."

Two weeks later Jekyll called upon Mrs. Harker again. _The Times_ was raving over a revival being shown at the Lyric Theatre, and would she be so gracious as to attend a performance with him? She agreed, awing him with a plain yet insofar unseen velvet and tulle ensemble, accepting his arm as easily as if he were Nemo or the Boy. There was a lightness around Mina's features and Henry knew she was happy to see him.

**And I know we're happy to see her Henry. If you move your hand just a bit I'm sure you can feel some of hers—**

High balcony seating of course. It wouldn't do to have members of Jekyll's former circle recognize the exiled murderer. She was complacent as he offered to take her coat, warm under his fingers as he helped her with the thick material, and her dark locks gleamed like fire in the gas light. Jekyll scolded himself for wishing she had worn it down and free-flowing like so many nights upon the Atlantic Ocean—that would be unsuitable for a woman of her years, not to mention a widow—and threw another mental lock on Hyde's mouth as he vigorously suggested that up here in the dark who would see if some hair or pants came down.

As the show progressed Henry got a sneaking suspicion that Mina was probably not enjoying herself. The scenery was fine, the costumes and acting more than passably good, but for a woman of her disposition he was certain the plot left something to be desired: a woman the pawn between a bet with two upper class gentlemen; a transformation of sorts designed by said men to make the street urchin into a respectable English lady. Mina's suffragist sensibilities were surely on alert. And Henry wouldn't doubt it was bringing up rather dreadful memories of her own transformation from contented chemist to creature of the night.

The lightness was gone as the curtain's fell. She didn't wait for an offer of assistance with her coat nor did Mina take his arm as they exited the theatre.

"Did you not enjoy the performance?" he asked lamely to break another awkward silence he should have gotten used to already.

"I've seen it before." Henry swallowed at her tone, an underlying anger that called to Edward who would have massacred the entire city at her bidding.

"Oh? With your...ah Mister Har—"

"With Dorian. I wasn't fond of it then either."

There was nothing to say to that except to fervently wish the Lyric would combust in a sea of ash and flame and cover up the horrid redness creeping up his throat.

Another week passed before what remained of the League was granted a meeting with Mycroft Holmes, head of London's Secret Service, and where they had the dubious honour of meeting one fit to be tide Sir Denis Nayland Smith and his insufferable hanger-on Petrie. There was no room for Skinner, himself, or even Holmes to offer their two shillings as Mrs. Harker and the Captain immediately fell into a heated argument with the two renegades; blame, incompetence, and threats were thrown back and forth before everyone turned to Skinner—the obvious bungler of the Hong Kong campaign—who was surreptitiously lightening Holmes' brandy tray. It was only when the younger and infinitely smug Smith aggressively clenched his fists and moved toward Mina that Edward decided enough was enough.

Seated in another room an hour later, a bullet hole in his forearm, tattered trousers tight around his now gigantic thighs, and the constant sound of bickering coming from the disarrayed main office, it was Jekyll's turn to remain silent while Hyde revelled in the chemist's ministrations. She removed the metal with her usual cool annoyance, not mentioning the assurance of pain because he was used to it and intelligent enough to know that pointed objects under ones flesh would undoubtedly cause a twinge.

"While I can appreciate the sentiment Edward," Mina spoke up, wiping her hands on Henry's destroyed shirt, "I hope you realize now that it was unwarranted and entirely unnecessary."

"Afraid I broke the skinny ponce's leg?" He grinned down at her widely. Mina raised her eyebrow but continued placing the bloodied medical instruments into a shallow pan of hot water for later sterilization. Both Edward and Henry were enamoured of the vampire's hands. When she wished it Mrs. Harker could have a delicate touch, fingers that manipulated tiny vials and caustic powders—home to nails that could snatch out a man's jugular.

"I'm _concerned_," she took up a roll of gauze, ready to wrap his large muscle, "that the young commissioner will assume all the women of our little organization are useless in physical combat." Mina gestured for Edward to raise his arm. "I'm _concerned_ that he will use this demonstration of gentlemanly temper to try and convince Mycroft that our presence is unacceptable passed the Indian border." Hyde almost laughed at her silence as his uninjured limb quickly came up to seat her on his lap. She resumed bandaging.

"Ah, Mina," he moved one large thumb along her back, just above the waistband of her prim black skirt. "If it _concerns_ you so much, you and I could always go back to that opium infestation. I'm sure you could sew me a proper travelling suit." When she slowly turned her head towards his, a smile appearing for the span of two seconds in the corner of her mouth, Edward gave a great laugh and released her.

"No one who looked at you would say you were useless in physical—"

"That's quite enough Edward."

They still hadn't retuned to the Pacific Rim a month later and it took that long before Henry was able to choreograph virtually a night alone on the Nautilus. This meant Rodney was having a night home with Miss Fitzgerald and that Captain Nemo was off somewhere with Skinner's red-haired harridan sister Kitty. As for Tom…well Jekyll had never been sorry that the American had gone home to pursue other possible agencies.

He had set up a table in the dining room—nothing elaborate or gaudy or telling of romantic sentimentality that a woman of Mina's worldliness would find pathetic or humorous. Good God, the very thought of her looking at his...his _attempt_ and raising one of those perfect eyebrows and snickering made Henry's skin crawl and stomach churn. It almost made him second-guess the silverware, the Irish linen tablecloth, but his own upbringing shuddered at the thought. Mrs. Harker, first and foremost, was a lady. And a lady deserved…far more than he could ever offer.

When she sat down in her pressed blouse and gold-rimmed spectacles Henry didn't know what to think. Her blue eyes were widened slightly, moving along the table platters and electrical lights, the crisp napkins and wine glasses. Impressed? Shocked? Disgusted? Mina's mouth was motionless.

**But her heart's beating like a cornered rabbit. Sweet music majesty, well done Henry. You've moved the unmoveable.**

But Jekyll wasn't about to take Edward's word on it.

She complimented his choice of menu—although her portion was decidedly rarer than his—as well as his new tie clip, which he knew she recognized as a small sign of his previous life's vanity. Would she straighten it if it were crooked?

Henry wasn't watching as she brought her wine glass to her lips for the first time, engrossed as he was in his own meal, but the tiny gasp—no more than a puff of air—quickly brought Henry's gaze up. Those pink slips of flesh were parted, her eyes boring into his across the table, over the glass. Jekyll sat back rather stiffly, confused. She made to put the glass down but brought it back to her mouth, a pinched line forming between her eyes as she ever so slowly, carefully, took one sip of the deep red liquid into her mouth.

"It's..." she swallowed, eyelashes giving a vague flutter that left him breathless. "It's you." Jekyll's gaze briefly travelled down to his freshly bandaged arm, covered by a starched shirt and dinner jacket, and lowered his fork and knife.

"Yes I—I can only imagine how difficult it is—how difficult it is in your position..." Damn, he was becoming flustered. "I hope you realize I-I-I meant no offence. I was simply trying..." Oh no, no she had pushed back her chair. Could he save this? _Was_ there a way to save this?! "Mrs. Harker—Mina. I swear I—"

She stood over him, auburn hair in another precise bun near the top of her head and eyes in which he would willingly remain lost, and then ever so gently leaned over and place a kiss upon the damp skin of his brow—her hand firm on his shoulder and sweet lips on his flesh. She pulled back far too soon, if not a look of awe then a lessening of her cool bearing apparent as she returned to her seat.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."


	26. Conquering the East

**A/N:** The opinions expressed herein belong to the characters, NOT the author. Warnings for racism and prejudice and some sexuality.

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**Conquer**

When Sanderson Reed had first been indiscriminately dismissed to this heathen kingdom—to play watchdog and nursemaid to Moriarty's spoiled pet Dorian as he pawned off reasonable good looks and financial connections as an ambassador in the British Embassy—he had been in far too much psychological distress to even ponder the possible benefits of the situation. Ingesting some potentially mass-producible, invisibility-causing, monster-creating serum had not been the high point of Reed's criminal career. An unexpected development was how Moriarty had quickly explained the attack in Mongolia, right before pressing Reed with a small flask and ordering him to earn his pay. Of course the rush and sudden belief in near-invincibility had been attractive: being able to watch unseen, eavesdrop within inches of another, spill blood with the knowledge that one's prey was left with nothing but terrified confusion in their last frightful moments. Glorious power. But back then in those first few months Sanderson had still had the hope that Moriarty's "Cure" was soon in coming, that he would not be stuck like that freak thief Skinner for the rest of his well-bred life. What was a little blind faith whilst recovering upon a smallish vessel headed to Hong Kong?

The faith had not lasted long and neither had the charm of travelling with an immortal prig who could drone on for hours concerning proper grooming habits and lost paintings.

Standing amidst the pseudo-elite of British culture, the banished philanthropists, and the so-called royalty of the barbarian natives in the ballrooms and dining halls of the English Consulate, was sometimes more than Sanderson could bear. Thick embroidered silks, crisp, peacock coloured fans, starched Irish linens and high collars, fine polished shoes: Sanderson had never been comfortable with nudity. After having time to think on it, he could not understand how Skinner had gotten on so well in such a state, but when one is raised in the muck of London's lower caste what else can be expected. Following Dorian like an impotent mongrel, waiting in corners near serving staff or silently racing through rapidly closing doors on private conversations had been wearing thin as an amusing pastime when word finally came from Moriarty himself, carried by an opium-encrusted messenger but M's pretentious hand writing nonetheless. Sanderson's unique talents would be needed for something more important than spying on the fabulously rich and those just leeching off the upper echelons, or practicing his new found skill with a blade.

He was to become a thief.

He was mildly unsettled silently stalking within the confines of the ancient temple, dozens of grotesque primitive pagan spirits glaring down at him from the boundaries of their entombed wall niches. It was hard enough to believe in the power of his own god; the idea that long dead ancestors could control his fate was laughable and only further convinced Sanderson that Moriarty was mad to see any usefulness in this nation of simple-minded peasants. What possible importance could an antique jade dagger have in the configuration of Moriarty's army? But Sanderson's profession had never been to question and thus he eyed the decorative blade resting on a small jewelled plinth as a means to an end. It was not until he stopped to consider the lack of armed guards which he had been warned defended the temple day and night that Sanderson heard the soft sound of feet behind him.

The kick to the back of his head caught Sanderson off balance, sending him rolling onto the freezing stone floor and exacerbating his already poor disposition. He turned with a growl, sneering at the thin, black swathed figure standing at the ready, barefooted like Reed with the demeanour of an assassin. How the bloody hell had Sanderson been found out?! He was to have some exercise before stealing a national relic? So be it.

More punches thrown, more kicks, grunts: the heathen assassin may have been quicker but Sanderson was bigger and invisible and that should have been enough in the Englishman's opinion. Using weight to his advantage he slammed the smaller man to the ground, taking a beating to his knees and a hard hit to the solar plexus in the process, but Sanderson's hands held tightly, body pressing down as his fingers curled around the small neck. He angled his thumbs, thinking to have this over with sooner rather than later, then paused in the pressure, dark eyes bulging in an instant.

Sanderson was quite sure there was a shank poking against his ribs.

"An impasse." His lip curled. "Am I lucky enough to believe your primitive intellect can understand my words heathen?" The assassin's black eyes blazed fire.

"I understand you perfectly, English dog!" Sanderson's forehead furrowed and instinct over-rode good sense as he quickly raised one hand to rip down the black silk face covering. They were suddenly both on their feet before his face could even register recognition. That delicately accented voice, small red lips that had spoken so demurely during her introduction to Dorian at the British Embassy: Sanderson wished she could see the mixture of shock and disgust written across his face. As it stood now the Lady Fah Lo Suee was waiting at the ready, head tilted and eyes moving back and forth, listening for him. One thick lock of raven hair fell loose upon her forehead.

"Well then _Lady_," Sanderson cleared his throat, fingers checking his torso for painless wounds. "Is it yourself or _Daddy_ that requires the Yellow Emperor's jade dagger this evening?"

Through the convoluted discussion that followed along with the myriad of threatening gestures—his of course she couldn't see but seemed to anticipate with her keen senses—Sanderson grudgingly admitted that there was more than a glimmer of intelligence beneath that blank façade; a sinister intelligence that one would not have suspected behind the vibrant colours and strange make-up that sat sedately at the Queen's Ambassador's table last week. She knew of Moriarty and Reed knew of her fanatical father Fu Manchu and his reputation amongst the natives.

Sanderson would get the blade. Apparently Fah Lo wanted something else.

He should never have agreed to it, should have simply taken the blade knowing _his master_ would be pleased no matter what may happen with hers. It was truly out of character, something he did not wish to dwell on but—in inevitable British fashion—considered for quite some time. Sanderson supposed she was attractive…in an exotic, boorish sort of way. She was strong and—he had to admit—rather calculating for such a small woman. Who would have thought that the _princess_ who had been the recipient of so much male attention in the ambassador's cigar rooms could have sliced all their throats without even a thought for all the poor mistresses left behind.

They arranged a meeting one fortnight hence, a moonless bitter night with the scent of dank sea life fluttering on the wind and an unknown substance gelling between his toes.

"You are late."

"I have responsibilities," she responded, hiding her surprise at his nearness and the floating burlap sack rather well. "You, on the other hand, do not exist." That stung more than Sanderson cared to admit and he tossed the stained bag at the woman carelessly.

"Your exalted Si-Fan are in sore need of training." He noted her un-amused glare and smirked. "I am surprised that the great Devil Doctor—" her chin rose "—would betroth his only child to a weakling such as _that_." Sanderson gestured to the sack that Fah Lo was already opening with remarks in that horrid monkey-language of this wretched nation. Never mind that he could feel bruises blossoming across his battered visage and he was lucky to have not broken his leg from an errant kick by the unwanted fiancé. "He should have been an easy mess for you to clean up." She held the severed head aloft by one bloodied topknot and inclined her head towards his voice.

"Yes," she replied softly. "But unlike you I would not dare to go against my father's wishes. Unfortunately, we disagreed on **this** matter of my future." And with that she threw the dead warrior's head into the ocean.

She did not thank him, merely took a moment to watch the water then walked away in imperious fashion, not thinking—no, not caring that he could follow, arrogant enough to believe he would not dispose of her as easily as Xie Quing.

Reed ignored her presence for the next two weeks, ignored her dainty walk and serene smiles at men unworthy of her conversation, men like Gray who would chortle at the imagined sexual prowess of such submissive creatures. Sanderson's years of servitude amidst such exchange did little to prepare him for when Dorian turned the comments on him one night in private after too much local wine. He had little patience for Gray as it was, and while the impostor politician waxed poetically on the true size of the Lady's bound tits all that held Reed back from smothering the drunken ponce—besides the fact that it would have little to no effect on Dorian's health—was knowing that Fah Lo would rather torture such an 'English dog' than agree to a private tête-à-tête.

These thoughts should not have been dwelled on either. Sanderson had a job to do and the chit was not worth his time. Moriarty expected he and Gray to ease the way, to conquer the opium circles and political bootlicks, to allow Moriarty easy access to the wealth of the Orient. Yes, the benefits of what this endeavour promised, _that_ was what Reed should be focused on. Conquering the East.

That was not at all what he felt though when the Lady glanced in his direction the next evening as he stood silently behind the tall potted orchids, her black gaze meeting his head on, a cold smirk disrupting her tranquil countenance for a mere moment before accepting an entrée course of quail. For some reason her small movements with the silverware seemed much more important than world domination.


	27. CHUDs in the Highlands

**A/N: **So this tale stems from an abandoned RPG and features a few OCs as well as Brigitte Fitzgerald from _Ginger Snaps: The Beginning_. Eleanor and Gregory were creations of mine inspired by the real life Scottish cannibal Sawney Bean as well as the novel _The Invisible Man_. "Kitty" is Skinner's older sister. WerewolvesNicholas Gaudon and Daniel belong to a friend of mine. And if you know what I'm referring to in the title then you also watch bad horror movies. Good for you :)

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**C.H.U.D's in the Highlands (Part One--Skinner's Story)**

**Part One**

"My father was an extraordinary man." 

The willowy blond hung a small lantern from a rusted hook on the stone wall, uninterested in the slick dampness such building material exuded, secure in the knowledge that her thick woollen and tartan could be easily disposed of should anything undesirable attach itself to the expensive cloth. There was always more to wear and it wasn't as if Eleanor MacTavish was burdened with foolish notions of sentimentality. Even as she spoke to the figure far below in the echoing space there was no inflection of pride in her voice, just a mere statement of fact. He had been down there for two days now and Eleanor had been intrigued that he had not broken his neck in the fall, his frequent screaming an ineffectual nuisance in her husband's Scottish castle but one that alerted few to his presence and none that would help the doomed man in his plight. This would be her second and last visit. 

"He was a scientific genius," she sat down elegantly near the edge of the pit, crossing milky legs covered in black sheep wool tights, "and thoroughly ahead of all his contemporaries in terms of our future and the human race. He knew there was more persons could aspire to be but that only he had the vision to walk the path of discovery. You see," Eleanor continued over the hoarse swearing and rough remarks on her sexuality, heritage, and soul's final resting place. "I hold with my father's belief that humanity as we know it is mired in the dregs, the muck. There is no Golden Age, simply thousands of rats scurrying for larger and larger pieces of increasingly rotting pie. Do you understand what I am saying Rodney?" One glossy riding boot tilted sharply, kicking wet dirt down upon what remained of the once great Invisible Thief. "You and the compatriots that comprise your mongrel race are akin to the fungus that even now grows steadily on the bones upon which you lay." She gazed into the darkness thoughtfully, her caramel brown eyes shining yellow from the pointed glow of the lantern's wick. 

"To have you touch me, to actively seek your attentions, was the greatest sacrifice I have ever made." The corners of her perfectly shaped cold mouth curved down ever so slightly. "You are an unworthy vessel, and to allow you to continue existing as a culmination of Hawley Griffin's work cannot be endured. Your survival is an affront to my brother's toil and my intelligence and therefore you find yourself at the bottom of a four storey pit." Her lips were passively back in place as she stood up. There had been murmurs of discontent in the village and she and the family had matters to attend. 

"Farewell Mister Skinner," Eleanor removed the lantern and turned once again to the aged winding stairway. "You have only your own arrogance to blame. How you ever believed one such as yourself merited happiness is utterly absurd." 

**Part Two**

He had seen better looking women. Gutter trash, ballet girls, actresses, chamber maids, ladies high on the hill with more diamonds than sense: bigger breasts, longer legs, softer mouths, lighter laughs, and better jokes. He would not have called Eleanor MacTavish _extraordinary_ by any means, no matter what Nemo thought or the almost embarrassing looks her brother _Lord MacTavish_ shot her way across their gigantic dining room table. (For two people reportedly so close they bloody well sat far enough away from each other.) She was talented to be sure: a capable rider, golfer, dancer—but Christ, Kitty even could make a good turn around the bar if she wanted to! But Eleanor seemed to have a little of it all, good looks and charm to lure everyone in their party to her way of thinking—except Brigitte who hated her from the word go, but as the She-Beast was off in the moors with all the other wild things her opinion wasn't worth a shilling. 

Yeah she was attractive, he'd have been feckin' blind not to appreciate the coiffed ash blond hair and sun-kissed skin, innocent smiles oh so easily given. In his solitary tours of the castle—just looking for possible escape routes of course—he had inevitably fallen in step behind the _Lady_, watched her with her staff of mute servants who bestowed upon their mistress a strange form of devotion, and observed her quick retreats from brother Gregory, the bloody poof. She was lonely, yea that's what Skinner noticed, her perfectly enunciated words belying sadness, sighs, a need to return to civilization and out of this backwater serfdom. Christ he hated Scotland. 

What he hadn't expected was for Lady Eleanor MacTavish to notice him, to start talking to him as he watched her stare out onto her rolling property, to turn in her bulky beige day dress and make direct eye contact as if he wasn't invisible and arse naked in her dreary parlour, her brother gone golfing with the Doctor and Nemo, Mina still abed sick as a dog. _"Are you enjoying yourself in my home Mister Skinner? Forgive my rudeness but I have always had a…second sight of sorts. Would you care for a brandy?"_

And she had him hooked. 

She wanted a change, something to liven up her dull day to day activities, and Skinner was enjoying the attention. And the booze. And her mouth. It was about time he was on the receiving end of some bloody female consideration! He'd been putting a lot of time in with B and where had it gotten him? As soon as she'd sniffed out one of her own she was gone like a shot and he'd been left holding his…Well needless to say, Skinner wasn't waiting around for any temperamental werewolf to calm down and see what the bloody hell was right in front of her. She really saw him—when Eleanor reached out she touched him exactly where she wished to, no awkward grasping or murmured apologies or repeated questions of _"Where are you Rodney?"_

Nemo made a few comments about how close Eleanor and her brother appeared to be and Jekyll complained about odd noises—footsteps—morning, noon, and night. Bollix. The Captain had probably caught whatever Mina was dying from and the Doctor was a sickeningly nervous bloke when he wasn't hulking around, scaring the peasantry. It was a wonder though that he'd kept his other personality at bay what with how many comments Lord MacTavish had been dropping—then again Jekyll had been in enough nancy-boy schools that he had to be used to it by now. 

Yea, she had him hooked, and Skinner now found himself at the bottom of a four storey pit. _"I have a surprise Rodney, something I do not wish those…associates of yours to get their hands on."_ An oubliette? Nice feckin' surprise ya cold hearted cock sucking bitch!

The fall should have killed him. No protection, not even his bloody hat, and nothing to soften the blow but years of decrepit freak-show bones; not that he had been allowed the dignity to see what was sticking to his fevered flesh or through his bicep or calf. It was lack as pitch down here, silent, wet and sticky with his own blood and urine. But Eleanor liked to hear the sound of her own voice and so Skinner learned about her life as an orphan all the way to the sick experiments she and her brother-cum-_husband_ performed on hundreds of poor Scottish denizens, most of whom now comprised his bed. Just carrying on their father's work. Their father; the creator of that cursed serum that had left Skinner a half-life and inexorably brought him to the MacTavish's notice, starting the ball rolling on Eleanor's carefully planned seduction.

Careful? She had hooked him from the first drink. And he had fallen hard.

**Part Three**

Everything was numb below the waist. Everything was numb above the waist. Rodney had had time to think about all the bruising, cuts, scrapes, wounds that now covered his body, to ponder how long each would take to heal; but in the end it always brought him back to one thing: not a single member of the League knew where he was and even if they did he doubted they would care enough to come looking. For the last two weeks Skinner could now admit that he had probably been what Mina would call 'an insufferable git' and Brigitte 'a perverted piece of dog shit beneath her boot.' He may have gone a bit overboard in the "puppy" remarks, and he really could have held the Ice Queen's hair while she threw up on the train. Now that he was going to die Rodney had time to regret some of his actions…and words…and thoughts. 

The cannibalistic bitch had left just an hour ago, maybe less, and he had used what was left of his vocal chords shouting profanities and news uses for that light of hers—another regret because at the moment he could hear sounds of howling and screaming and general echoing mayhem and if he had just a little bit of energy left perhaps he could have saved his worthless hide. What the feckin' hell was going on up there? Had the freaks revolted? Had brother and sister…husband and wife…whoever they thought they were—had Eleanor and Gregory finally met their match with their latest experiment? _Let it be Hyde. Christ 'ow I would've loved to see Hyde tear the limbs off those bastards…_

It was hard to keep his eyes open now, hard to keep focused on the dry sensation, and his breathing patterns were worse. Rodney had survived Mongolia, survived an unknown chemical solution and countless numbers of bullets. He was going to be brought down by a blond and a feckin' pit. He should have apologized to B; he shouldn't have bloody let her leave tally ho after that sod Daniel. He should have paid more attention!

"Skinner?"

_Wha…_

"SKINNER!"

Someone rough and wholly familiar was calling out to him right now and if he could just stay awake long enough to listen maybe he wouldn't die in the next two minutes. Brigitte? Was that Brigitte? 

All he could do was cough.

**Part Four**

The train sped furiously along the tracks, racing over the Scottish countryside in the early Autumn light and speeding the traumatized members of the League away from the burning terror that was Castle MacTavish. It had only meant to be a simple investigation: a threat of missing travellers, perhaps a gang of ruffians stationed to waylay the unwary. They had viewed the trip as a vacation and had been thoroughly unprepared for and ignorant of the horrors that awaited them, and now they returned to the Capital like wounded dogs, tails between their legs despite the inherent success.

It would be hard for Rodney Skinner to call it a success; it was going to be hard for Skinner to say much of anything at the moment. He was laying on a soft surface—well practically everything was softer than what he had been sleeping on for the past two days—wrapped up in a coarse blanket with a cool cloth pressed to his forehead. The swelling, searing pain had disappeared from his arms and leg, to leave him with a dull tingling sensation of sharp needles—Christ he hated needles—and a deep sense of gratitude that he could feel anything at all. He could smell the used leather of his coat, old sweat, and singed hair. Someone loud and obnoxious and French was talking nearby, a whiff of tobacco smoke proving that Skinner's breathing was apparently better and that he hadn't completely lost his mind if he could still recognize that lousy wanker. A low, sullen voice accompanied the French werewolf's frog-ish blather, and if Skinner hadn't wanted to listen in on their conversation he would have laughed imagining the beautiful raven haired girl rolling those big, deep set eyes… 

"…up! I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"You were not sad to leave him behind, non? _Le putain_ tied me to a tree!"

"What did I just say?"

"I'm surprised you did not inflict any—"

"If you wake him up I'll kill you Gaudon." 

There was a masculine chuckle that sounded rather disconcerting to the newly aware invisible man.

"Just as you did _la petite blonde_?"

Prompt 


	28. CHUDs in the Highlands 2

**A/N**: I received 3 reviews for the last chapter! 3! For a section that was rife with OC's and AU content! That's amazing, especially when you have to go back to the first chapter to see 2 reviews. Glad you guys/gals enjoyed it and I hope you like part two as well. My apologies if Nemo sounds a bit off; I think I was channelling Mr. Kobyoshi(sp?) from _The Usual Suspects_. And in case you're wondering, Part Three--the last part--will be Henry/Edward's story :)

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**C.H.U.D.'s in the Highlands (Part Two—Mina's Story)**

**One**

The entire situation was completely ridiculous.

Wilhelmina Harker was never ill. She had clawed her way through a pharmaceutical diploma, laboured her fair share with Jonathan amidst coughing, wheezing elderly and runny-nosed fluxed infants, and spent the years before Moriarty's appearance catering to upper class opium sots—incredibly wealthy men, though sots nonetheless. She was never sick, it was a laughable impossibility. Her blood had healed Skinner's burned flesh after his heroics in Mongolia; the cursed ichor made her body virtually impervious to harm—something that Van Helsing had helped her discover long before she had allowed Dorian to break her heart. Give or take the odd tension headache that was more indulgent habit than actual impediment these days, Wilhelmina Harker was never ill. Never. And that was exactly what she silently repeated, mantra-like, as she whipped through monogrammed handkerchiefs and tugged ineffectually at her red tie.

Vacation? Damn Nemo and his bull headed insistence on sniffing out every alliance and possible alliance that James Moriarty ever left note or file on! A Scottish abduction circle with connections to the House of Lords? Yes, this was going to be an ever so relaxing jaunt to the countryside for the overworked Londoners. Pillox. No—no. Mina agreed with the Captain's reasoning, relied on and trusted his judgement more than anyone's in their group of misfits and murderers. Nevertheless, the statuesque vampire would have preferred to wait out her _new_ abnormality of congestion and exhaustion in the isolation of her own domicile, not in front of five—well four—overdressed others travelling to the Highlands in a cramped private car.

Nemo was as stoic as ever beside her in his blue turban and layered uniform, the self-exiled Prince unencumbered by the stale, oppressive heat of the train car or the chimney that was Nicholas Gaudon, a black cigarillo hanging lazily from the French werewolf's lower lip. Henry, Skinner, and Brigitte sat in the plush brown seats opposite, the latter two synchronized with a constant stream of bickering—had been since leaving King's Cross Station—while the lanky doctor checked and re-checked his heirloom pocket watch in a thoroughly annoying manner, piping up with attempts at polite conversation when Skinner, Brigitte, and Nicholas' slick innuendo and black silences became a little too much for his nervous sensibilities. Mina wished to strangle them all and she suspected that was why Nemo had situated himself between the braying morons and herself.

No—no. Brigitte was a strong, capable, intelligent young woman.

**Two**

While the village had reminded Mina of a Medieval hamlet just crawling out of the Dark Ages with hygiene standards bordering the same, MacTavish Castle may as well have been a cultural Mecca. The Lord of said manor was a surgeon no less, attended Cambridge and apprenticed for a time in Rome, though his thick Scottish brogue betrayed none of his thoroughly English education. And who said nobility were disconnected from their struggling population of peasant classes?

Oh. Oh my. Mina was being entirely too priggish this evening.

It was not like she had anything to brag about where her upbringing was concerned. Whitby was a backwater fishing township on the coast of England, no matter how poor Lucy liked to exaggerate its Pastoral qualities. Yes, _for Whitby_ the outgoing exuberant redhead was wealthy indeed, but had she lived it would have been Arthur's name and connections only to allow her access to the drawing rooms of the London elite—and Lucy would have wanted the elite. Wilhelmina Harker, widow of chemist Jonathan Harker, had never entered these homes in her old life and so should not be judging farmers and sheep herders by their toil and dirt roads. Not when there were suitable werewolves and team members with which to be annoyed.

Werewolves on the moors. Dozens of them. The Loup Garou was apparently not resigned to France and the woodland of the Hudson Bay Company, they were everywhere; a rather disgruntled pack just happened to reside directly outside the village they were currently visiting. Brigitte and Nicholas—claiming feud-despoliation but by Mina and Nemo's shared looks the elder members of the League saw something more primal in their reasoning—were now living off the land so to speak, put off by the horse-riding, petite _oh so British_ Lady Eleanor and her cool bearing. Due to her lurid past, deportments, cool or otherwise, no longer bothered the vampire, but then again by the time they had actually reached their destination Mina would have accepted housing with feline-collecting religious zealots as long as she received a private room and a bed at the end of the night.

Blasted flu.

She had repeatedly been dabbing her nose throughout their meal, disgusted at her assuredly beacon-like appendage and the fact that her eyes were struggling to stay open. The dining hall was opulent, meat rich and wine of old vintage, but at the moment Mina could not have cared less about the decor or provisions: she was miserable and, unfortunately, looked it. When the second course was being carried away by several of the large staff of amputees, Lord MacTavish magnanimously offered to show Mina to her quarters.

"We wouldnae be offended if ya wished tae retire."

Ignoring both Lady Eleanor and Henry's pointed looks as she accepted Gregory's arm—because, embarrassingly, at that point she may well have collapsed—Mina gritted her teeth and attempted polite small talk as she was led down a series of lushly carpeted stone hallways. She found it hard to observe Lord MacTavish for any great length of time during their conversation and it took far too long to reach her chamber. He was very tall, pale, as fair haired as his wife if not more so, as if he had never partaken of the cold winds and high summers of his inherited post, but his eyes. . .they were large and blue and somehow brought to mind the men Mina had seen walk the halls of Steward's asylum; there was nothing inside despite his knowledgeable and gentlemanly manner. He offered to bring by a tonic and the chemist quickly agreed if only to have a moment of peace.

It must have been longer than that given that she woke what seemed like hours later, clothed in her nightgown and loose hair sweaty upon her pillow. She groaned at the hammer battering away on her skull and tried to sit up only to feel a warm familiar hand pressing against her shoulder, pushing her back onto the sensible cotton sheets and delicately settling a heavy brocade quilt over her chest.

". . . Nemo?" Mina swallowed, her dry throat constricting as she regarded the Captain through a bleary gaze.

"Rest easy Madam," his deep voice soothed. "You have been unconscious for the better part of a day." She found his word choice amusing even if it didn't show on her face. For her own sanity Mina would assume she had undressed herself. "Lord MacTavish left an elixir and orders for it to be consumed." It hurt to raise her eyebrow but it had to be done and a low chuckle rumbled from the man looking down. "You do not fear foul play? Mr. Skinner knows his duties and hitherto has not informed me of anything untoward or suspicious."

"No skeletons in the sibling's closets? No dark family secrets?" She allowed the Captain's help in ingesting the scentless clear liquid, frowning severely at the taste. "Ghastly."

"Yes. And not at all natural I would imagine." He moved to stand near a tall, thin window, grey light filtering in and speckling his pristine uniform. "There is nothing to discuss as of yet, though we have not heard from Miss Fitzgerald since we parted ways yesterday."

"If Nicholas burns the forest down she'll let us know," Mina murmured, another bout of unconsciousness eminent. This was pathetic. "My apologies Nemo. I've become utterly useless." Vacation? Bah!

"There is no need Mrs. Harker. We simple men can handle a small cloak and dagger operation such as this." Mina gave a slightly amused grunt. The man possessed more humour than most gave him credit. "The Doctor has already impressed me greatly with his patience." Now she attempted to focus through the daze. It would be a disaster of monumental proportions if Edward were to make an appearance.

"Patience?"

"I fear that our illustrious host has become enamoured of the poor Doctor Jekyll."

Mina tried not to laugh, but she fell asleep with a smile all the same.

**Three**

Her sinuses were empty but it felt as if her head was also as it lolled back and forth on the warm pillows. She couldn't open her eyes though; dark eyelashes heavy upon her cheeks; and that seemed to be a problem—nothing to panic over though. How long had she been abed? She felt as if her body was being transformed from water to bubble and back again. There was a certain level of concern when one cold, thin-fingered hand slipped underneath her neck, brushing over the ever-present puncture wounds and lifting her up, hard glass pressed to her dry lips. Mina groaned as sleep kept pulling but opened her mouth, more of the same appalling medicine rolling over her tongue and down her throat. Her forehead wrinkled and she gave another exhausted whine as her head was placed gently back on the pillow, a thumb soothing over her cheek. Of all the things to startle her senses. . .

Mina leaned into the caressing hand, face cradled by the icy palm in a way which would only be allowed in her sleep-addled state. Surrounded by beakers and bubbling corrosives, gifted—or cursed—with a so-called unbreakable body and an acidic tongue: few would guess the vampire's secret desire for gentleness and simple physical contact. And as much as she became an automatic scold in his presence, there was only one man whom she would wish even in her clandestine imagination to be touching her at this moment.

". . .Henry?"

But the embrace had already stopped and oblivion had claimed her once again.

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There were children laughing.

High-pitched giggles wafted around Mina's head, surrounded her fragmented thoughts, needling in through ears seemingly covered with gauze and sprinkled with peat moss. Taking hours—days!—the vampire opened her watery eyes only to find herself staring at where her deceptively tanned hand rested against a smooth stone wall. Rested was not exactly the correct word, as Mina looked down at her bare feet skimming shakily along the carpeted floor of an unknown corridor and realized she had been steadying herself while sleepwalking though MacTavish castle. But. . .how had she gotten to this point? And where were the children?

Thumping steps rushed passed, billowing the hem of her simple white nightdress and causing Mina to give an uncharacteristic shiver. Laughter followed, echoing from behind, but there was no one to be seen, no tartan-clad ladies, no chubby limbs. Thick auburn strands fell around and over her usually proud shoulders while Mina's free hand was distractedly brought to her temple, the confines of her skull begging to be released from the throbbing pounding bone.

"Please," she croaked out. "Please, who's there?" She endeavoured to move faster, palm slipping over the wall but a shaky determination evident as she manoeuvred down the hall in an effort to chase the disembodied voices. Something was wrong, something that Mina couldn't quite put her finger on, but there were also too many things that the chemist couldn't explain and she found that worse than actually walking for no reason in her almost-underclothes. "I—I'm lost. I shouldn't be out of bed!" Oh Lord, her stomach was going to rip apart! Mina bent over in one vicious movement, panting, fighting down a wave of nausea even as red and black flashed before her eyes: an ache in her jaw, a burning in her throat.

Grunting male laughter laced with near-tangible sneers as well as sickening amusement could eventually be heard through the pain and Mina looked up with a stuttering growl to see. . .nothing.

When the vice-like pressure encompassed her shoulders she had no strength to struggle. There may have been a scream and it my have come from her, but her weight dropped into the invisible arms and a dark stupor built as Mina was quickly dragged away.

**Four**

He had begun to speak even before she realized her eyes were open. It wouldn't have mattered either way; there was no neck, no heart, no breath. Mina felt little and saw less. It was easy to ignore the cold blue gaze staring at her with such intent pleasure when the image came in starts and stops, easier the feather touch moving over her bare throat and down between exposed breasts, her nightgown split from neck to navel.

Cold. Everything was cold.

She was upright though—a strange sensation as her head fell forward, hair automatically pushed back by unwanted fingers. A metal band enclosed her hips, another two above each of her elbows, the three straps supporting Mina's weight like an insistent lover unwilling to release his ravished prize. The grip was just…there, unnoticed by the vampire with a taste of cotton under her tongue and gauze between her ears. The extreme ache in her jaw was lost. She did however make a small sound when the kitchen knife slid through the soft skin of her stomach.

"…me beautie, I cannae wait to discover all yer secrets. We 'ave all da time in da world."


	29. CHUDs in the Highlands 3

A/N: This is the final installment of the C.H.U.D's series. HGope you enjoy it!

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Prompt 36: Never

Prompt 43: Candle

Prompt 88: Rope

Prompt 50: Eruption

Prompt 79: Rain

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**C.H.U.D.'s in the Highlands (Part Three-Jekyll's Story)**

**One**

Jekyll was doing very well if he did think so himself, very well indeed: keeping his alter ego at bay and silent, regulating his thoughts towards more charitable efforts such as the many medical and botanical observances offered in this wild country, not to mention the abundant opportunities for astronomical research given that without the atmospherically reaching buildings that crowded London's cityscape the Scottish territory had an almost magical navy nightlife, a variety of constellations previously gone unstudied now visible to his insomniac gaze.

_**'A magical navy nightlife?' No wonder that quif is so interested Harry. Your poetry could only impress other cock suckers.**_

Dear God, Henry was miserable and positively ready to crack asunder. He should have defied Nemo and this sham of a vacation, he should have argued strenuously against his inclusion in this expedition and claimed his ah…expertise…could be of better use elsewhere. And there was the rub! Embarrassingly, leaving Henry in an utter humiliating spiral that none of his compatriots seemed to notice, there appeared to be no use for his specific talents.

_**I'm the only talented part of his duo Harry. The better part.**_

The senior members had come to stay in a castle—an actual castle with Lord and Lady and the damn duffer was a doctor! Surgeon, no less! Lord Gregory MacTavish was apparently known far and wide as a great professional, had studied in bloody _Rome_—He had to calm down. There was no need to get upset and it was only playing into Edward's hands anyway. The monster had been caged completely by Nemo's own doing, the Captain allowing only one vial of serum on this journey and that alone carried on his person. Hyde had released his rage as a stream of constant babble, insuring that both he and Henry would be a raving mess by mission's end. And Henry was a mess. The keeper of the only bearable conversation in their cursed group was feverishly ill and for the last several days the only company to be had—

_**Skinner at least would have been entertaining, but no, this is your lot now Harry, to follow like a leashed dog. Darky and the Bum Boy. And don't lie to yourself Harry; it isn't your conversation you want the little woman to bear.**_

_Don't presume to know my thoughts Edward!_

_**I AM YOUR THOUGHTS!**_

The day was grey and windy, as every day in this country had been since the beginning, but an outing had been planned nonetheless—enforced through Nemo's belief that Miss Fitzgerald and Mister Gaudon would send word of their animal adventures at some point—and so here Henry stood watching the Captain 'putt' while Lord MacTavish's skirt blew in the wind. Kilt, yes kilt. No need to be rude. And, truth be told, the Lord was no duffer either. Young, successful, wealthy. However, the veiled innuendo—which Nemo and Skinner both found so utterly amusing—and savage accent, made Henry's skin crawl and Edward's fists clench.

Lady Eleanor was another matter altogether. The waif-like, unassuming sister had received quite the English upbringing and looked down on their assembled League with just the correct amount of school-girl snobbery and London charm that Henry found her gentile manner almost comforting. While Lord MacTavish was practically cloying in his attempts at congeniality, Lady Eleanor's aloof smiles were a balm of civility.

_**You're all blind fucking fools. Civility? The quif's half dead inside but she….Look at her mouth. We've crushed innocent mouths Harry and that is no innocent mouth. Now tell me who's the picture of civility?**_

Edward's demands at gauche honesty aside, there was more to Henry's misery than personal circumstance and professional competition. He was positive the castle was haunted. He had yet to have one complete peaceful rest since entering Castle MacTavish, footsteps, childish laughter, and horrid moans keeping him awake until all hours of the morning, though he had yet to find conclusive evidence in any of his midnight searches. The voices disappeared like a breeze and the footsteps and the moans were completely untraceable. To Henry. Despite his sincere claims, Nemo refused to accept Jekyll's 'unfortunate delusions' and suggested valerian tea instead.

The incomplete objective—there had yet to be a single murder since their group had arrived in this rather frustrated and scared Scottish hamlet—coupled with his sleepless nights and now the Captain's sheer indifference had almost caused Henry to crush his beloved pocket watch and then where would he be!

"Ken ya can 'old therra club a mite better Doctor?" Lord MacTavish piped up beside him. "Tis a fine weapon in da right 'ands butcha willnae win grasping like there. I can show ye of course…"

_**Keep your hands to yourself you pasty faced bastard.**_

**Two**

The laughter had started two hours ago accompanied with much running through the hallways and Henry was of a mind to let them continue without abuse. There was an odd climate around the castle tonight, an energy that had nothing to do with optimism or seasonal plans of the peasantry, and altogether to do with deeds done late at night, an enveloping darkness any pure soul would do well to avoid. It had Henry ensconced inside his pleasant chamber fighting against a fear that said he would finally meet those laughing footsteps tonight and a self-loathing that screamed he was a man and a warrior and no invisible creatures were ever going to get the better of Henry Jekyll.

He lit the stub of a burned down taper and hastily pulled on yesterdays trousers, his sleep shirt hanging over the waist but now really wasn't the time to quibble with himself over matters of proper dress. Hooking a finger through the brass candle holder, Henry cautiously opened the door and peered into the shady darkness of the stone hallway. Not since the first night he had been ushered to this secluded chamber had Henry felt such foreboding at being separated from the other members of the League. The MacTavishes housed many unsavoury characters in the form of crippled servants and unbalanced distant relatives (their shifty eyes, not lost limbs, the cause for Henry's concern); the Captain had met with some hostility from the populace; Skinner was no where to be found, hadn't been heard from in more than a day if Jekyll's calculations were correct; Mina was in a near catatonic state, her strange illness increasing with tremendous speed. Henry had looked in on her once only, afraid of any noticeable impropriety but also unwilling to take either Nemo's or that upstart MacTavish's word that his….friend…team member…was resting peacefully. As he took measured steps down the carpeted hall, the flickering candlelight throwing abstract shadows, Henry couldn't help but send a bitter prayer of thanks that they were all returning to London two days hence.

He didn't need Hyde's internal monologue to raise the hairs on the back of his neck now. The night was incredibly still though Henry would have sworn he wasn't alone.

"Hello?" he hissed, eyes straining. "Skinner? If that's you I swear I'll—"

As several sets of arms descended on him Henry knew he hadn't stood a chance.

**Three**

_**Wake up! Wake up you useless bloody wart of humanity! They have us Harry and I don't know how you'll get us out of this one so wake up now so I can solve yet another problem! Wake up!**_

…_Edward…Edward, where am I?_

_**If you would open your fucking eyes I'd know!**_

Taking stock of his own body first (a definite swelling at the top of his head would account for the current headache, a vicious burning around both wrists and an uncomfortable ache in the elbows and knees) Henry let his other senses examine what he couldn't before completely giving away his awakened status. Wherever he was it was incredibly cold and the distinctive sound of dripping water could be heard. There was bright light somewhere above his head and scents of chemicals and mold, and then something else that made Henry's stomach roll.

_**That's blood, you know it well. Blood and raw meat. Someone's been having a party without us Harry.**_

In the next few moments Henry wished he had remained unconscious, wished that the dilated pupils in his blue eyes would suddenly burn out and take the memory of his last piece of vision with him. Hyde was a roaring mass of red rage inside his skull, battering against whatever shred of barriers Henry had left. Oh God no…

Henry pulled ineffectually at his constraints, his body swinging with the motion. Heavy coiled rope suspended him from the slick stone ceiling; more of it griped his ankles forcing his legs spread-eagled and without purchase on the floor. Another piece banded around Henry's midsection and seemed to be held by in place by some force behind him. Two forces, Henry realized as the chuckling started.

"Ya slept through all da fun Doctor." MacTavish dropped something that glinted into a large baker's bowl; it slipped through water and ended it's descent with a metallic clink. He held a greyish bloodied towel but there were no stains on his full length surgical garb. "But it wasnae iffen yer beautie 'ad much to say. Not e'en when I peeked inside." There were utensils set out before the surgeon on a shining wooden table, knives of varying sizes as well as an assortment of clamps and scrapers. And one long tined fork that had most likely come from the dining room's silver collection. "Shesa funny one Doctor," MacTavish continued to sterilize his instruments, his voice full of clinical interest and factual excitement. "Wit all that arsenic mix I kenned we'd buried Missus 'Arker long ago, that ye at least woulda notice 'er deteriorating illness. But she isnae like you or I, is she Doctor Jekyll."

Three iron bands held Mina's body upright on a strategically designed surgical table. Her head hung forward like so much dead weight, her thick auburn hair now dull and limp, thankfully obscuring Henry's view of beautiful round breasts and small brown nipples though it couldn't in any way hide the horror that was the woman's torso. Mina had been gutted, layers of flesh and fat and lining peeled back like a prized roast to expose the collection of wet organs secreted within. Sections were missing: intestine, spleen, even a rib and a bit of the lung beneath. A trough had been placed below her dangling feet for the purpose of collection, the hem of her white nightdress fluttering softly around her ankles in an obscene counterbalance of femininity that had Jekyll swallowing a sob. Besides the cloth directly against her open wounds, there was not a single speck of blood to be found.

Lord MacTavish came forward, his long pale hand rising to push away Mina's hair and modesty.

"Don't touch her!" Henry screamed, eyes wet and red but damn it he would stop this desecration. "Don't you touch her you heathen bastard!"

MacTavish turned his very white head and looked at the trussed-up Jekyll with a small patronizing smile. "She dinnae taste like other women."

A muted rumble suddenly echoed through the heavy grey stone walls to both men's mutual surprise, vials and beakers tinkling on their shelves and glowing candles shaking precariously in the hanging circlet above MacTavish's head. His icy blue eyes narrowed and Henry barely heard his commands to the cackling servants tugging sporadically on the biting ropes Hyde was growling so loud.

"Och! Let 'im 'ang aft and go look on Eleanor! Be gone witcha, if she's 'urt ya'll feel it twice o'er!" Jekyll's body swung forward at the immediate slack and he gasped at the sharp pull on his wrists and shoulder joints. Jagged fibres sliced into his skin, trickles of blood rolling down his arms, the pain twisting his attention away from Mina's mutilated figure and the fact that he hadn't been able to see the two rushing servants.

"I'll kill you MacTavish! You won't get away with this, I swear it! I'll—"

The punch caught his temple and delivered instantaneous darkness.

"Shut yer gob. I've time fer ya later."

**Four**

_**Harry.**_

_**. . . **_

_**Wake up.**_

_**. . .**_

_**Wake up!**_

It had always been because of Jekyll's serum. However it had been made, whatever combination of science and witchcraft that puny craven had used, Edward didn't know and couldn't have cared to learn at any point in his half-existence, but at this moment with fury expanding every molecule of his being, Hyde had had enough of being treated like a sleeping giant and was ready to let his rage rule.

And Henry wasn't listening.

He wouldn't be able to explain later, wouldn't even try, but Hyde broke free—of the rope, of Jekyll's unconscious, of the body too small to hold such thunder—by way of the most painful transformation he had ever experienced. Panting, leaning momentarily against the damp wall in his newly split trousers, Edward raised a meaty fist to his nose and wiped away a clot of dark red. _Bollix._ The tremors running through his thighs (unexpected and never before experienced) and the throbbing in his jaw were irrelevant as the impetus fuelling his frenzied sense of righteous determination and anger had completely disappeared.

Mina's body was gone.

How long had he blacked out?

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Sweet screams like raking fingernails and screeching iron gates filled MacTavish Castle this night, along with roars and growls fit only for ancient fires and Nordic woodlands. Edward followed the signs like a man possessed, racing through the entombing halls, massive shoulders crashing through decorative vases and antique furniture, smashing invisible bodies into pulp like soft-boiled eggs. They weren't invisible to him though, oh no! With Edward Hyde in charge their light-footed scurrying, like rats in a pantry, was of no use, nor was their high-pitched laughter, moans, groans, a deterrent when their hearts beat the same as anyone's and their cursed bodies gave off a glow of heat and blood.

That blood splattered Edward's hands and forearms now as he quite cheerfully discovered those Skinner apprentices reappeared once death struck its final blow. And Hyde liked being Death's Messenger.

The bodies were piled higher the closer he came to the face hall (there were more of the freaks than Edward had even suspected)—which made sense seeing that there was an entire wall missing from the frontage and what looked like ravenous wolves were storming through, many half-formed and upright and howling for the throats of the inhabitants of Castle MacTavish.

Well they would bloody well have to wait in line.

He grabbed two unseen bodies as they raced towards a set of fallen flags hoping to make use of their spiked ends; another Edward ripped off his own back, grunting at the dagger that carved raggedly along the meat of his shoulder. Harry would be sore tomorrow.

"Hyde!"

Edward's torso moved in one rippling accumulation of muscle, deep set eyes searching for the source of the husky cadence who called his name with such haste and anxiety. The tiny bitch was in disarray, her eyes wild and black as pitch, hair tangled, her hands gnarled and already sporting a set of vicious razor sharp claws. There was only time for Edward to manage a leer at the new acrid smell of sex she now carried before the tide seemed to turn. The element of surprise had been lost and the MacTavish's legion of freaks—invisible and otherwise—were fighting back.

"Where's Skinner?"

Hyde crushed the head of one servant and chuckled deeply.

"I believe you'll have to ask _Lady_ MacTavish that."

Brigitte inhaled deeply, an actual growl passing through her currently all-to-human throat, and Edward smirked at the look of pure hatred colouring her sallow features. He had never ingratiated himself to the young werewolf (_". . bunch of moon humping savages. . "_) and Brigitte had never hid her lack of admiration for his infamous reputation. She saw his smirk and clenched her fists as tight as she was able.

"Then **you** need to stop Mina before she takes out more of our side."

Then she was gone, running down another corridor where Edward could hear Nemo clashing sabres, where Edward couldn't beat into her that Mina was dead and that as well as being a cannibalistic, whoring, under-handed, demented Scotsman, Gregory MacTavish had also stolen her body to have as a snack later—

Edward roared, lifting a colossal builders stone and throwing it over his shoulder into the fray. It rolled through a group of combatants, sliding to a stop against the remains of a family portrait—the one for which Eleanor had been conveniently absent, where Gregory stood stoically behind two aging parents, pale hand on his mother's shoulder. Mothering Christ! Edward was going to absolutely obliterate him that bastard limb until every trace of his insignificant subsistence was wiped clean of the earth!

An unexpected ache in his chest had Edward coughing, spitting out a wad of saliva and phlegm onto a slaughtered werewolf who looked to have taken three servants with it. Nothing worth analyzing, no time and to no purpose: Harker would still be dead.

A loud crack across his lower back had Edward reeling, pain shooting up his spinal column and stealing his breath. He stumbled forward with a grunt and a curse. He had somehow missed the two servants and their master in his denied reminiscence, but that didn't mean he was unhappy with the situation. There were two large pieces of timbre suspended in mid-air and Lord MacTavish stood between them like an expert magician preparing for his second act.

"Where's me wife, yer damned Formori demon!"

_Wife?_ Edward raised one hairy red eyebrow.

"I wouldn't know where sweet Eleanor could be," Hyde's voice was steady, deathly calm as he swatted away both boards and invisible owners. Gregory's blue eyes widened. "But I'll take that hand now, if you please."

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Darky was being helped outside by two partially dressed peasants, a cut on Nemo's forehead seeping steadily, his uniform stained; a female with a short mop of bright red hair was yelling orders to anyone still moving, screaming about horses, her trousers torn and singed. A fire had been born in an explosion that had taken out another wing of the castle and the entire structure was preparing to tumble. Retreat had been called as it seemed less and less likely anyone would win this day but Edward had never been one to run from a good fight. He stood his ground, watching as the wounded limped or were dragged free of the castle, his only mission now to kill as many whoresons as possible. He thought he spied a body wrapped in Skinner's leather ensemble being rushed outside by another unknown and Gaudon—_About time that lousy Frenchman decided to get his hands dirty_—and his suspicions were proved correct as Brigitte jumped over and slapped him full in the face. Her claws were gone which was good, as otherwise Edward would have had something else to throw at her besides his bitingly cruel wit.

"Have you found your man Miss Fitzgerald?"

"Skinner's alive," she snarled through tight, thin lips, her dress pattern barely recognizable beneath the blood and gore. Her eyes were human again. Just. "Garret and Meredith have us a way to get back to the station, but you," one bony finger poked him in the chest, "were supposed to get Mina!"

"She's dead!" Edward's face twisted in anger as he leaned his heavy bulk over to yell in the girl's face. "She wasn't ill, you fucking chit, they killed her!"

Spittle hung from the corner of his mouth in a thin silvery line, some splattered across Brigitte's face. His lungs moved in great heaving pants and not for the first time Edward Hyde considered wiping out all those around him. He could see the fine tremble of Brigitte's tightly locked jaw, hear the rapid beating of her abnormal heart. But she didn't run and she didn't step away. She stared back.

The moment was broken however as a naked body fell from the shadowed ceiling, bones crunching mercilessly as it hit the floor several feet away from both werewolf and monster. It's throat had been torn out with none of the efficiency of a Doctor's scalpel or two delicate pinpricks. Brigitte raised a hand, finger pointing up.

"And what do you call that?"

**Five**

Henry enjoyed the gentle rocking of the coal powered train that ushered he and his fellow League members back to the familiar grounds of London, England. It was a steady motion, a constant forward shift that reminded the tired Doctor that home was truly not that far away.

**Home? We have no home Harry.**

Henry didn't respond. He had nothing to say to Edward and no strength of will left to argue. Silence was his prerogative. His joints ached, his psyche was troubled, and Henry—glancing at the resting Captain and the snoring Mrs. Harker in their shared private car—felt as if he had reached another crossroads. He looked down at the watch in his hand and reluctantly slid it back into his front coat pocket. Nemo's head wound was cleanly bandaged and covered slightly by his turban. The older mariner had sustained no other injuries and had been rather optimistic about the whole debacle upon waking. _"We have uncovered and vanquished a den of iniquity Doctor. The Empire is safer for our efforts."_ Mina was still comfortably secured inside the priceless MacTavish tapestry that Edward had surreptitiously stolen as convenient wrapping for the basically nude vampire (though upon admittance to the train it was considered wise to locate rope for further confinement). She had yet to wake or speak, but her colouring was much better and Henry had been encouraged by the snoring, a thoroughly human trait. Yes. Thoroughly.

_"Mina," Edward drawled loudly, his eight foot form stretched to it's tallest height and chin cocked up. "We're finished here now."_

_She was hanging upside down by talon-like fingers and toes, pressed into the corner; if he raised an arm he would be able to brush her waving sheet of hair. With slate-grey skin and ruby red eyes stretched like slits across her face, Mina watched him like a snake, head twitching at a new discovery. He liked that. Edward's laugh had her opening her bloodstained mouth, and as high as she was the firelight gleamed on two rows of edged fangs. "You've been busy Mina." It made perfect sense now. A similar rage had encompassed the tortured Mrs. Harker pulling her own personal demon to the surface—one which actually survived on the death's of others—sending the chemist on a murder spree to befit any destruction he may have taken part in. Her stomach was slowly healing before his eyes, the blood of werewolves and freaks having strengthened her extraordinary immunity to even the worst calamities. Edward licked his lips and smirked as she copied the gesture, a convoluted, indecent movement of muscle between teeth not meant for a human mouth. "Are you satisfied?"_

_While he had taken these few precious moments to peruse her generous chest and the thatch of curls between her legs (apparently the vampire's darker side didn't appreciate clothing) Mina's eyes were locked on his neck, on the thick pumping vein that had worked so hard today._

_"Mm-Ooore. . ."_

_It wasn't Mina's voice. It wasn't even an imitation. It was something completely. . .Other._

_She didn't wait for an invitation, simply dropped free of her hold in a dead fall with a screech, claws bearing flesh and fur aiming to gouge out his eyes, but Edward didn't pause for sentiment. His mammoth fist came around hard and fast catching the vampire squarely in the jaw; with her momentum Mina was sent crashing into the stone wall. The blood on her face wasn't her own and nothing seemed broken so Edward relieved the castle of something it would never miss and dutifully wrapped up his package._

_Mission fucking complete._

Henry had wakened somewhere in between.

His watch—rescued in the search by Monsieur Gaudon of all people—was not the only weight inside Henry's borrowed coat. It had taken him a moment upon discovery to understand what Edward had hidden rather poorly inside the tapestry and instead of sharing with his exhausted comrades, Jekyll had wisely pocketed it for later investigation. The black trouser fabric was ragged and had obviously been torn by Hyde's oversized grip, but Henry didn't need to pull the material away to know what was inside.

He hadn't witnessed Lord Gregory MacTavish's demise, but he had Edward's very vivid memories. And now he also had Edward's present. Henry was disturbed at how relieved he had felt at the knowledge that the man was well and truly dead, even more so at his plans for storing the surgeon's crushed right hand.

Henry swallowed and continued to watch the rolling landscape rush by him, foot tapping slightly, eyes intense as a light rain started, tapping back it's own code against the glass.

He was a doctor.

He was a murderer many times over because of a demon his own science had released.

And at the moment Henry Jekyll was a man very much conflicted about these two extremes. He was alive. They all were.

**Are we friends again Harry?**


	30. Crossover! A Memory of a Memory

**Title:** A Memory of a Memory  
**Fandom:** Crossovers! There's _LXG_, _From Dusk Til Dawn_, _Underworld: Evolutions_, and _Ginger Snaps 2_  
**Characters: **Mina Harker, Seth Gecko, Marcus Corvinus, Brigitte Fitzgerald, Sam Lemche  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Warnings:** sex; language; blood; violence; drug use; flashbacks (or flash-forwards?)  
**Word Count:** +3400  
**Summary:** Is it what we forget or what we choose to remember?  
**Author's Notes:** For lucidreams for my Summer Gift Fic Exchange! It's still open on greenbat_fics over on LJ if you're interested :D

A few parts come from an old GreatestJournal RPG, New Blood. The premise, like many multi-fandom games, was that the characters did not know how they arrived in the bustling city (bustling with secret agents and scientific spies) but they had been there for several months, had had lives and interactions with other characters, etc. None of the situations here ever happened in the game due to time and the fact that rpg's drop off the map faster than planets these days (Oh Pluto where are you?!) but a girl can dream :)

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One hand was hot on her waist, moving up and down the damp skin of her flank from hip to breast in deep, harsh caresses; he would linger on her nipple, his thumb pressing hard and pushing up, rough fingers abrading her smooth flesh. But it was simply a tease and based more on his pleasure than hers. He loved to see her squirm under his touch, move because of him. He knew.

The other grasped tightly to a handful of white sheet bunched above her shoulder, the fabric smelling of sweat and the whiskey/vodka combinations that had brought them both to her too-big bed tonight, falling upon it with a desperate need that alcohol couldn't kill and was easily burned away between their rocking, heaving bodies.

He wasn't a lightweight when it came to booze.

She had only been intoxicated once, over one hundred years ago.

Her short nails dug sharply into the meat of his tanned back, tanned everything, and held, the remnants of her softness giving way to his unrelenting thrusts, giving over her power, her strength to his demands. She panted against the broad blackness of his left shoulder, lips, teeth grazing the tattoo of monochromatic leaf and vine. He was spewing absolute filth into her ear: what he was doing to her now, what he was going to do, that she liked it (and yes, she did like it), and how he was going to enjoy telling _her fucking watchdog_ about every second of it.

xxxx

_"My parents, on the other hand, are none of your concern, and 'Mina' will suffice if you are having trouble with the extra syllables."_Mina_, my last name is Gecko. Seth Gecko."_

"Mina eh?" His eyebrow quirked, but other than telling her where to shove those syllables, he couldn't really think of a come-back. "Well since you're being so gosh-darn-friendly

xxxx

"You repeatedly make this same mistake. I've yet to decide whether it's because you think me a fool or that secretly you are a very lazy player."

Mina blinked.

She blinked again.

She slowly turned her head, tilted it, and let the décor of the strange room soak in. This wasn't her apartment. This was all pine green and beige and slick mausoleum coolness that belie his occupation; her rooms were a mix of browns and blood and old growth forest. This design, however, was comforting. Mina felt . . . comforted. She glanced down at the obsidian Bishop resting loosely on her palm—it was _his_ home and he _always_ moved first—and gently placed it beside the polished chessboard. The man seated across from her was pale, his orange-red hair pulled back with a leather strap at the base of his neck, and his blue eyes were bright even in the low electric light. Her mouth quirked slightly as she finally met his eyes.

"And I have yet to determine whether you are bored with our friendly matches or just a man with very little creativity." There was a low chuckle as he pushed a Rook ahead with one forefinger in a move with which Mina had become familiar. "You continue this sequence in the same manner as well—"

"It _is_ the quickest way to win the game."

She raised one perfect eyebrow and relaxed somewhat in the high-backed chair. She was still in her uniform, the white skirt dusting below her knees, rising a tad as she crossed her stocking-covered legs. She enjoyed his wit, his intelligence. The multitude of slack-jawed pseudo-professional children she was forced to interact with on a daily basis was both mystifying and exhausting and his presence, his . . . friendship, was quite welcome at the end of a busy evening shift.

It was equally welcome to tease the currently off-duty maintenance man.

"And is winning all you think about Marcus? The end result and the quick finish?"

He mirrored her facial 'tick' as he liked to call it, sitting back in his seat slowly. "I'm surprised. I always believed the battle was half the fun." The grin that had formed on her mouth faded swiftly at the cold blank stare that he suddenly returned. "Marcus? Are you alright? What's—"

"I've been in many a battle woman," he pushed back his chair with a screech, a hand pressing at his temple in an erratic gesture that brought Mina to her feet as well, her closed collar now feeling tight around her throat. "The end result is rarely reached quickly . . ." He coughed and staggered forward, bumping into the table and knocking over the chess pieces.

"Marcus—" Mina stepped forward and reached out to grasp his arm but the stocky man grabbed hold of several scattered stone pawns and throwing them across the room roared.

**"This isn't a bloody game!!"**

xxxx

_"It's powdered Aconitum napellus, also known as Aconite, also known as monkshood. A perennial. Uh, it's pretty fucking poisonous and can be absorbed through the skin so be careful how you touch it. Long periods of time in contact with it can kill . . . so maybe you should put it away and—Here."_Well then. No wonder I am carrying it with me._ It had burned horribly going down her throat and made an acid boil of her stomach before the vampiric flesh had realized the intrusion and fought it off. Now that Sam explained it's properties it made much sense that Mina had used it in an attempt to end her life._

She watched in quiet amusement as the young man cleaned up the mess she had made on the table, pondering his 'fucking poisonous' remark.

xxxx

Mina's lips were a thin red slash in her incredibly focused face, her blue eyes narrowed and steady. The sleeves of her white blouse were rolled half-way up her forearms, a smattering of innocent looking powder still gracing the expensive linen, the memory of it's actual caustic properties still burning on her newly healed hands. One fist was clenched atop the arm of her uncomfortably severe velvet padded chair, knuckles pale on her sun-kissed flesh. The other rested with all appearance of laziness upon her knee, barely ruffling the dense fabric of her long black skirt.

She wasn't lazy or rested and could not have cared less about the chemical mess strewn about her kitchen or the tiers of medical texts and paper covered in hieroglyphic-like formulas that littered her apartment, broken ankles and torn ligaments waiting to happen. The mess didn't matter. The stains didn't matter. The fact that she was now no better than an Anthony Raffles or—ugh—a Rodney Skinner didn't matter. What mattered was that Mina could very well be condemning a young woman to a certain and exceedingly painful death.

Through her façade of steel and antagonism, the pharmacist was utterly terrified.

Brigitte handled the stolen needles adeptly, manipulating metal and plastic like it was second nature—which it undoubtedly was—then moving on to the first of many glass vials, this one in particular filled with a steaming violet liquid. She filled the needle slowly, a biter look of resignation plastered on her pallid, thin face, tapping the container, releasing the air.

An obstinate line of sweat rolled down Mina's spine; the boning of her corset bit into her ribs and she truly shouldn't have worn the posture enhancement to work but it had been a day when connection to her real life had been needed; soft tufts of auburn hair had escaped her high, tight bun. She felt like a bow, taut and waiting to snap.

"I prepared it to your specifications," she bit out, nails biting into her palm. "The aconite of course is not fresh, but it is amazingly pure and it stores better than gathered organic plant material." Brigitte made a noise that could have been anything from a grunt of agreement to one of her varied murmured profanities of which Mina had become surprisingly fond. The stringy-haired girl had quite the vocabulary. "I trust you know I would not—"

"I don't have trust to spare for anything right now," Brigitte pinched the marked flesh of her arm, the tight band around her bicep forcing her veins to stand in stark contrast to her translucent skin tone. The needle slipped in without a sound but Mina clenched her jaw. Brigitte was already falling back against the old-world softness of the vampire's green sofa, releasing the band with a snap. Their eyes met over the three foot distance. "Thanks. But if I start sprouting fur . . . Run."

She placed a toothbrush between her teeth and then began to shake.

xxxx

_"How could you have been so careless you insufferable git!" she hissed, gaze still watching the midnight sky for any motion that those inside the helicopter had seen what had almost become of their would-be neighbour. She barely felt her sliced cheek close seamlessly before she looked down upon the form she loomed over, anger clouding her features._ But it is still Marcus. It still knows a knight from a pawn.

"If they find you—"

Her expression quickly changed as she now took notice of the animalistic creature. The anger slipped to be replaced by soft astonishment as she glanced over the small eyes and slitted nose.

"You have wings."

xxxx

He is attentive. Generous. Refined.

He holds her hips and thighs possessively, with hands just as bloody as her own. Bloodier. But not now. Now they're clean and rough and satisfying, and in a moment of fancy she imagines him as the displaced barbarian warlord he is.

Was.

Her head falls back on a gasp, mouth working for some unattainable word, sound, to describe the pleasure their bodies create inside her, but there's nothing she can say that wouldn't be approximate of sentimental tripe and that's not what she wants for them or for herself. There is no place for romantic notions in this world in which they now reside, where the present, where lucid moments need to be used and exploited and held. His fingers massage her curves and he likes to guide her movements while she rides him; she believes they have performed this act before—cannot be truly sure of course, has no real memory—she feels an awareness in his arms, in the touch of his body to hers, the sensation of his thick shoulders underneath her hands.

His cock is buried deep, their bones a grinding closeness; he will not allow her to rise very far, the pressure of his grip and silent stare forbid it. She would like to be enamored but their arguments are far too stimulating; his tongue can be akin to a venomous snake and her demeanor has never been warm; it can be disconcerting to think that she once hated him but this is what he tells her. She feels his rider legs brush restlessly against her own, the red hairs scraping against her smoothness. A tendril of the mass that lies atop his head winds sinuously around his neck, and t strikes her that he has a strong neck, one made for action and revenge and other things she would probably dislike in another time. Her real time.

It doesn't matter, not when he thrusts up and her nails draw bruising lines down his chest, purposely grazing across his hardened nipples which has his mouth opening, searching for useless words and comments, things that are understood so much more through instinctive guttural sound. He surprises her and growls, his eyes transforming to an icy blue, a brighter blue than the electric neon that constantly thrums through this giant city, through her bedroom windows. His teeth are sharpened ivory calling to her own beast in a way that has nothing to do with dinner. She wants his mouth on her. Everywhere.

"You do not fear me."

His words a show an uneasiness within the gravel tone, as if this statement had just been revealed to him alone and he rears up, to her shock and delight. His knees rise to prevent a possible escape, and he strokes her breasts desirously before twisting the heavy weight of her long auburn locks around his fist and forcing the angle of her head to his will. Their lips meet with an unexpected chasteness given their hot breaths and pulsing veins, organs, remnants of hearts, before he viciously rips free the intricate choker she had declined to remove earlier in the evening. It hits her armoire like a lightning strike and hundreds of black beads scatter, raining down, rolling under her minimalist furniture.

She feels her eyes bleed red.

"You do not fear me."

His fangs sink hard and fast and she comes, imagining the taste of his own blood on her tongue.

xxxx

_Turning around again, Seth strode back to the couch with a disbelieving look that turned to a chuckle as he hauled off his black jacket and revealed the rest of the tattoo that traveled down his left arm. He forgot about the gun and didn't think as he said to her, "Here take a look Mina, you've been staring at my neck half the fucking night."_

A slight pink touched at her cheeks as yes, she had been, but not for the usual reasons she watched men's throats. Her gaze remained on his arm though, watching the thick black lines that traveled down from his torso.

"Yes I think I shall."

xxxx

She curses herself a fool for the thousandth time, rushing through debris-filled alleyways, looking over her shoulder with the complete belief that **someone** had had to spy her hospital theft, whether it be that spiteful Betty, that disgusting Robert, or that moronic Tyler. **Someone** knew. She had been a fool to take so much at once but the underlying need had been paramount, as if her insides had been wrenched, her mind alarmed at how important this impromptu task had become.

The apartment building was unfortunately on a busy street and there was little cover during this period where day blending into night. Vehicles race, women and men in garish outfits squeal and curse and kiss with impunity; Mina rolls her eyes and hefts her burden closer, an edge of the wooden crate digging sharply into her stomach. Her red scarf trails behind her like an errant leash, tying her to the past and where she desperately needs to be. Truly. Has to. Must.

But her logical self disappeared earlier as she absconded with government property.

Mina keeps to the sidewalks, purposely striding near outside walls and telling herself that running would only give her away. There is perspiration on her forehead, growing underneath her white uniform and black velvet jacket. It is insufferable to attempt living in two worlds and—as she has done every day since waking—Mina vows to escape this unnatural state that is the Twenty First Century. She does not belong, and as a pair of laughing children walk by, pointing, Mina feels it keenly.

She would like to strike out.

She has been tempted in many ways.

It is hard to trust her own mind, and yet she walks, knowing that a semblance of safety can only be found within the confines of her personal rooms: her new home.

There is a blaring shriek of noise that Mina has come to recognize as the arrival of this lands authorities and that is not good at all. She quickens her pace but for some odd reason her breath is coming in harsh pants. Inside. She **needs** to get this crate inside. And it would be at this point of desperation that _he_ appears, seemingly out of nowhere and blocking her entrance. Perhaps she ran into him but Mina refuses to parley semantics with this criminal.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

His lip is busted—clean but cut—and there is a dark shadow along his jaw. She knows he has probably been awake all day, awake the previous night, maybe more. He wants to get inside Silver Heights as badly as she does. He appears as tired as she is. Mina swallows more than a life times worth of pride but does not smile or put any warmth into her request.

"I require your assistance."

He regards her with a curled lip, narrowing eyes that consider her and her situation and what he stands to gain. He is a manipulative bastard but an intelligent one and he will not ignore her load.

"And what do you have there sweetheart?" Her own gaze shrivels at the ridiculously embarrassing, unwarranted endearment, and her tone is dismissive. If he chooses to act like a child she will treat him as such.

"Help me get inside or let me pass, I haven't time for this."

There is a grunt, a tightening of his mouth that will not simply be quiet and let her by. Mina sighs and for the third time asks, "Help me, Seth." There is something coming that she cannot predict.

This seems to strike a chord behind those earth brown eyes though he is outwardly no happier. Happiness, ease, seems as lost to him as it is to her from what she has gleaned in their moments together. Of course in their moments they are usually discussing his evil red haired teenage assistant and neither is inclined to crack a joke. He steps back and holds open one of the heavy front doors, gives a sarcastic little hand gesture to usher her through.

"After you."

As they stand before the elevator, watching the numbers slowly descending _7. . . 6. . . 5. . . 4_, Mina taps her boot heel impatiently. She should have taken the stairs just to move but it would be no better and she hadn't the energy for it. The taller man to her left was similarly twitchy: hands in pockets, hands out of pockets, scratching his chin, running a hand over his short dark hair, smoothing out his rumpled suit jacket.

He snaps first, not looking at her. "Are you even going to tell me what's wrong with you? I mean, what else." Mina wants to groan and scream and push a length of piping through a vital organ. Instead she rolls her eyes.

"Do you really have to speak?"

"Don't you fucking—"

The doors open and Mina inhales sharply which, to her extreme aggravation, alerts Seth and reveals too much. She didn't need this man's presence either.

"Ms. Harker."

"Marcus."

"Mr. Gecko."

"Yeah."

"Going up?"

His sharp blue eyes absorb her laughingly indiscreet armload then pierces her outward collectedness with complete disapproval, ignoring Seth like the insignificant speck Mina knows he believes the other man to be. He knows something is not right and she **cannot** let him take the crate away. She does not need any man's approval but she needs him to get out of the elevator and opens her mouth to give some lie, but—

"Just get out before I do something you'll regret."

Mina hadn't seen the movement and now Seth had a gun pointed a Marcus' third eye with the ease of one used to operating such items, no humour, no cockiness. "I'd tell you sometimes bad things happen to good people. But we both know you aren't good people."

Well. . . not as much.

Seth makes a slight gesture with the weapon that Marcus seems to understand and they slowly circle one another as a group until Mina is standing in the elevator with her cargo and both men are still watching each other like hawks.

It is her only chance to get away from them both.

Lifting her foot quickly, faster than a regular woman should, Mina boots Seth in the backside and slaps a button of the very efficient elevator. The doors whoosh shut, cutting off her unapologetic 'Thank you.' Only as Mina feels herself rising does she let out a sigh of relief and feel her shoulders relax.

The blood packed inside the crate needs tending, needs to be put away.

It is always about blood.

And neither Seth nor Marcus could ever understand.


	31. Mina and Dorian: a conversation

The water was glorious, a magnificent sheet that went beyond the horizon, so bright that if her cold shell had allowed it Mina Harker would have cried at it's loveliness. A base of sapphire, aquamarine tints, diamond and pearl crests that reached and fell in gentle gallops to the determined press of the Nautilus' bulk and glistened beneath a topaz sun: she was surrounded by wealth.

"More precious than gold," she murmured, raising a hand to her brow and gazing across the expanse.

"Commiserating Mina?" She repressed a sigh and lowered her limb, smoothly replacing her expression of genuine contentment with her usual accruement of amused disdain. "I've never known you to be sentimental."

"I believe recent events prove what we once knew of each other to be more fiction that fact." Dorian nodded in discrete acknowledgement of his own secrecy before his dark gaze fell pointedly to the elegant curve of her throat, now covered in cloth and velvet—far from the extravagant beaded chokers she would wear religiously while in his. . .company.

"Surprises indeed," his eyebrow rose lasciviously, a knowing smirk blooming. Mina rolled her eyes and turned back to the ocean. "But what would this tedious business called 'life' be if we didn't stretch the truth now and then."

"Stretch?" she inquired lazily. "Is that what you would call what we did?" Oh there had been so many lies on both sides. Dorian moved closer, one pant leg of his impeccable suit brushing and staying against her black skirt.

"We did many things Mina. But I would never insult you to call it simply 'stretching'." His teeth were very white and he wore the same cologne she used to anticipate the scent of on nights when they frequented the theatre, the opera, this lord or that lady's gathering of various individuals. They had done _many_ things together and Mina despised the frisson of heat that snaked through her abdomen at the memory. His vitality and love of life and 'damn the consequences' speech had thrilled her to no end after years spent in guilt and seclusion.

But that had been before he broke her heart, and the vampire gave no sign that his words had touched her whatsoever. Eventually her indifferent gaze rattled him enough to change his mode of declaration. "More precious than gold, eh Mina?" Dorian watched the rolling of the waves with little interest and a look of some small contempt. "But it wouldn't buy us back all that wine and jewels and _vice_." He chuckled humorlessly and glanced her way. "It wouldn't buy us back time." To this Mina said nothing. Time was a great leveler and she had more than she could possibly ever use. She suppose the same could be said of him. "If I hadn't been very rich, I might have been a really great man."

Mina's lips quirked up at this nonsense for they both knew Dorian hadn't been ivery/i rich, merely lucky in his choice of fair-weather friends and bankers. And that he would now place blame all his debauches on money was utterly ridiculous, but Mina played along.

"Don't you think you are?" She smirked, showing Dorian what she really thought. He pursed his lips, amusing her with his quickly changing moods. He was annoyed at her reluctance to be wooed by his charm, but that was nothing new.

"I think I did rather well under the circumstances." He was picking invisible lint off his sleeve in a gesture that would have been home in the finer parts of London; it was insensible here on the water and Mina rolled her eyes again, a harder note in her voice.

"What would you like to have been? Enlighten me Dorian." Circumstances. What did the peacock know of circumstances?! He made his own choices like every other creature in the world and while her own deceit had been to cover up a trick of supernatural impossibility _his_ had been to publicly humiliate her on the grounds of Camden Town, courting a sweet young thing of seventeen.

"Everything you hate."

Mina blinked. Dorian turned once more and for a moment she believed he would reach out to her; something in her expression must have held him back and it was wisely done.

"I would have rather lived a life without knowledge of you Mina," he spoke softly, "without knowing your beauty, your temperament, and—perhaps I flatter myself—your love, than have you stand before me now in complete indifference to me and the pain I keep at our separation."

It was a wonderful coincidence that the Nautilus dipped, alerting those gathered above sea level that the Queen was preparing to submerge for Mina had no rejoinder at the ready, no appropriate comment or sneer that would fit and still make her feel victory in the conversation. While the vampire's rational and sharp mind knew words were as smoke to Dorian and worth just the same, her woman's heart could not hope but that Dorian did feel pain and much of it. She certainly had.

"I believe the time has come to return to our quarters."

She didn't wait for his reply.


	32. Mina and Dorian: a grave visit

**Title:** I am not there, I do not sleep  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Fandom:** LXG

**Characters:** Mina, Mina/Dorian, past Mina/Jonathan  
**Movie/Quote:** Apocalypse Now/#1  
**Summary:** All ties had been cut, or so she supposed, and this was a private gathering.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine. No money is being made at all.

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He had been dead for quite a while. Butchered. Psychologically traumatized. And for the first three years without him Mina Harker had been unable to mourn, too worried was she about carrying the Monster's curse through the dirty haze of London, of mowing down the vagrant, the child, the prostitute and the father alike, of watching the whole of the city burn in a decadent slaughter of ruby red. Van Helsing had saved her from her very real demon, had stilled the rage and helped her learn her way. Other demons weren't so easily controlled, not with rope and knife and gun, and when she was first led to Jonathan's grave the oddity of nature did mourn, and her tears ran hot upon her sun-kissed cheeks, the skin of her palms flayed raw by steel-like nails altered by her new abnormal sacrilegious physiology.

When she was finished Mina donned her scarf—a wedding present from a poor chemist to his young bride—and left, but she never forgot, and forgiveness was a cruel joke.

The years passed and she was still a woman, still _felt_ beneath that very cold, very hard exterior, but her blood lust could not fill the void and the line of men who left her presence (their belief in satiation an utter fraud of her design) only increased the dark pit of blame that resided where once a beating heart had rested but which now lay inside a rotting plot in Highgate Cemetery.

When she met Dorian it was if a breath of fresh Scottish air had blown through her stifled parlor and awoken Mina from a monotonous run of days and weeks and years, but it was impossible to forget. Even when she secretly promised never to take the distinguished young man's blood, to not ruin their burgeoning liaison with her unnatural needs nor mar his beauty with her evil. . .even when she rode him to release again and again while he sucked the large jet beads that constantly decorated her throat, Mina's heart had been created for one man and with him it did stay. Dorian could have everything else, anything he so desired—and she gave it freely, so enamored had the vampire become that it was almost love, as far as she **could** love—but not that. And so it was never enough for his passion and greed.

In her daze Mina had not seen the signs, and thus Dorian's betrayal cut twice as deep.

Months later still, Mina was incredibly displeased to find him drinking beside Jonathan's grave. Her countenance was once more intact, her face an indifferent mask for nothing hurt as worse as heartbreak and she would not forget this lesson either.

It was her husband's anniversary and this man was not invited.

"What a wonderful surprise Mina," Dorian lifted his chin with an obscene degree of mockery. "Who would have ever imagined to find such a lady as yourself wandering amidst the offal." If he thought to see her incensed he would be sadly disappointed. Mina merely raised an eyebrow and came forward to place her hand momentarily on Jonathan's marker—the inscription hardly visible—no warmth at all in her greeting.

"You are unwelcome here Dorian. I am surprised you would have thought to be received any differently here than from your current reception in all the finer establishments in England." She looked from side to side with purpose. "Are you residing nearby?" Dorian snorted and capped his flask.

"Would you visit me?"

"I make it a habit not to associate with pigs."

"Oh ho ho! Really?" His face was a nasty sneer and Mina was sore pressed to remember what she had once found so lovely no matter how badly that thought hurt. She said nothing as he stepped upon the beaten mound that covered Jonathan's remains. Her husband couldn't feel it. "No, you would rather join our dear Queen in mourning an _idea _of a man that never existed!" He was angry and it meant nothing to Mina. "What are they going to say about him?" he gestured. "What are they going to say in a hundred years?" Dorian stepped closer, looking up through his devastatingly dark lashes and thrusting his voice low like he used to, now as if to shame her in front of the dead. "That he was a kind man? That he was a wise man? That he had plans? That he had wisdom?" Dorian watched her and Mina watched back, undaunted. She knew what she was. Dorian spat. "Ridiculous!"

"This is monitored property Mr. Gray," her voice as frozen stones, her presence as unbothered. "I would suggest you take your leave before things become more unpleasant." He looked at her incredulously.

"Monitored?!"

"Indeed." She blinked, and, since beholding him in her hallowed space mere moments before, finally felt the ichor rush through her veins in a heated rage. "Take it as the last act of kindness I shall ever bestow upon you."

Dorian left, perhaps questioning the strength of one lone widow, perhaps questioning the strength of whatever friends she could have sequestered for a rainy day. Dorian left and it would be five more years before she would ever see him again, time changing memories and womanly feeling very little.

She sat but did not cry, unintentionally leaving another offering of blood upon the grass, and for the first time wondered briefly if Jonathan would have stayed this long for her.


	33. Hustler (Modern AU)

**Title:** "Hustler"  
**Fandom:** LXG, AU  
**Rating:** PG-13 (strong language)  
**Summary:** Somewhere in London, favourite bitch Mina Harker is presenting photographer Huck Finn with what is to be his latest job. As usual, Huck's far from pleased.  
**A/N:** Inspired by **au_abc**, on LJ, I wrote this little piece while hiding away in Clarenville for two weeks doing little more than watching Netflix (I was channeling Veronica from "Better off Ted") and surviving the humidity. Oh and I bought boots! In my head Huck has already met Tabitha, a sweet down to earth girl far removed from this usual line of fame hungry, cut throat women he's used to photographing. Thus, when Mina hands over the portfolio, he feels like he's somehow been duped.

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Wilhilmina Harker, owner of Quincey Press and it's subsidiary line of erotic catalogues, lit another cigarette and glanced bemusedly at the obnoxiouswall clock brother-in-law Rodney had thought would make a wonderful addition to her London highrise and thus found a home in the office of her favourite underling, Huck Finn. Said photographer had been deliberating over glossies of Mina's latest find for far longer than it wouldusually take the critical American to say 'yay' or 'nay' to the model in question, and it made Mina's red slicked lips quirk in the barest of smiles to think the arse had finally been stumped by a pretty face.

"She won't work."

Mina's frown bounced back in to place.

"Of course she'll work."

"She won't work."

"I'm telling you, she'll work." Mina blew a condescending smoke ring across the table. "With that smile she's apple pie and weekends at the lake. With that ass she'll get us a mainstream contract next quarter." Finn shuffled through the photos then pushed the file away.

"She has no experience and you want to give her the Garrett account? That's designer lingerie."

"Vivienne and Mere will like whomever you shoot," Mina rolled her eyes, stabbed out her cigarette, and imagined kicking her ex-husband in the crotch since she couldn't actually do it to Finn. Life would be much simpler if men did what she said when she said it. "For some reason those redheaded dykes enjoy the pictorial manifestations of your Napolean complex."

"Christ you're unpleasant."

"Yes, and more importantly I'm right. I was right about Mahette, I was right about Calen Sinclair-"

"One's a mental case and the other's a sexual predator-"

"That's for our lawyers to decide. What matters is that they make my clients and therefore Quincey Press an obscene amount of money. They can sell. Mina rose, and, ready to leave, slid the folder back. "And so will Tabitha Wentworth. But if you don't want her I can always send her over to _Hyde_."

"Wait-_**Hyde**_?"

"Mmhmm," Mina tapped a manicured fingernail against the doorjamb, enjoying Finn's anxiousness. "I'm not adverse to honest competition."

"It's a hardcore porn rag."

"And their man Valentine enjoys those bright-eyed ingenue types. Doesn't he?"

Finn's lips thinned. But they both knew who held the purse strings here-or at least Mina hoped that sort of good sense would convince the photographer that her will be done.

"How did you even meet her? I thought you only looked at walk-ins once a season?"

"Thank you Finn. I so appreciate employees questioning my policies." The rumpled American sighed in exasperation. "You'll shoot at nine tomorrow. Viv will deliver the pieces and stay on to supervise. Meredith's still fox hunting or whatever it is one does in the country."

She was out the door and reaching for another cigarette when she heard Finn curse. Mina smirked. _My will be done._


End file.
